


Champion of Justice

by acogna



Series: Heart of Vengeance [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Extended Universe
Genre: Gen, Murder Mystery, Staged Crime Scene, Team Up, ohhhhhhhhhhhhh boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-03-22 03:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13755216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acogna/pseuds/acogna
Summary: The rogues gallery of Gotham begin a murder spree, picking off the city's elite. But when the Batman discovers that the crime scenes are only set up to frame them, he is faced with much more questions than answers as he searches for the killer's true identity.Even with Selina Kyle back in his life, his trust is spread thin as more people join the hunt. However, to solve this mystery, he must return to his painful past, and look to an intelligent sixteen-year-old boy who may know so much more than only his most precious secret.





	1. 20 Milliliters of BKN-40

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, we’re back at this again.
> 
> I’m actually surprised I can’t think of any installment of _Batman_ with the same premise: rogues being framed for crimes that were never theirs. Feel free to point me in the direction of a similar story, if you know one. 
> 
> Still DCEU-based, so this flows more like a movie than a comic book fic. This story is set six months after this thing’s prequel _Lonely is the Knight,_ and it’s going to be less BatCat and more of a murder mystery, now inspired by Telltale’s _Batman: The Enemy Within,_ with a lot of themes from _Dark Victory_ by my favorite pair Jeph Loeb and Tim Sale. 
> 
> You don't necessarily have to read the prequel to understand this one. TL;DR: after a buncha squabbling and LQs, Selina and Bruce are back in a relationship, but Selina has a heart condition now that prevents her from doing stuff. Basically, _Heart of Hush_ in literally one sentence.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhibit 39.1: A small corked test tube of BKN-40, a compound utilized forensic scientists to uncover chemical trails at crime scenes. This may be what the Joker was after when he broke into the facility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some violence and some semi-explicit dialogue about BDSM. We’re starting off this story with Joker and Harley, so you’d kind of expect that. 
> 
> I’ve never had experience writing them before, and I’m only basing them off their appearances in _Suicide Squad_ and some _B:TAS,_ so feel free to critique that!

He’s relieved; he finally gets to go home after a long night. They stand simultaneously and shake hands from across the doctor’s table.

“Thank you, Doctor Ford,” the young boy says again for the fourth time in their recorded conversation. “It’s been a privilege interviewing you tonight. Just know that everything you will say will be quoted verbatim in my paper, and that none of it will be used against you.”

“Anytime,” Ford says, clicking off the lamp at his table. “Always willing to do anything for a student striving for good grades. You best get yourself to your parents quickly, alright? It’s dangerous in the streets late.”

“I know,” the student replies, taking his recorder from the desk and stuffing it into the pocket of his hoodie. “Thanks again, Sir.”

“Don’t mention it, kid,” the doctor replies as the door slams shut behind the boy.

Ace Chemicals is quiet in the dead hours of the night, even coming from the executive offices wing. He's been informed that less than twenty employees work the night shift, including security guards, so it's no wonder that the whole complex feels like an abandoned building in the dead of night. The echoing footsteps of his sneakers are loud in the cold concrete hallways as he passes locked doors and glass display cases; midway through his journey back to the main lobby, he pulls up his hood over his head to try and conserve his warmth in the air-conditioned corridors. Checking his phone in his pants pocket briefly, he sees the flash of the time as 11:34 PM, and almost unconsciously, his backpack seems to grow heavier, as if urging him to go home faster.

Suddenly, as he’s turning right to go to the lobby hall, he sees something black on the floor in the distant adjoining hallway. As he walks closer, he notices that it’s the shoe of a security guard, on a foot with two legs slowly disappearing into the thin corner hallway. When he realizes he’s only a few feet away, his heartbeat stops in his chest when he hears voices.

He clamps his hand over his mouth as he silently presses his back against the chilly walls, carefully peeking the corner to look down at the incapacitated security guard, his stunner far from reach and his eyes closed in unconscious sleep. Judging from the way his uniform is crumpled around his neck and the marks on his chin, he had been trapped in a chokehold.

The student frowns. But by who?

That question is answered as quickly as he asks it when he hears the same voices on the end of the narrow hallway. In front of the security panel of the open safe door, the back of a dark and broad silhouette looks constantly at some holographic mini-computer displayed on his forearm, inputting a code into the hardware.

“What’s taking so long?” the shadow asks into the open door, his syllables disguised by a dark voice far from harmonious.

“Sorry, hacker boy,” a female’s distant chastising from inside the safe says, and it’s sly, almost flirtatious. “Why don’t  _you_  be the gentleman and do all the heavy lifting here?”

“This door has to stay open.”

“Of course it does.”

“I get that it’s hard to look for the number, but we don’t have all night.”

“Oh, but we do, Bat. If Schiavone’s is still open later, we could strip the costumes and go. Or maybe Al could whip us something up; after all, I’m starving right about now.”

“We can think of food  _after_  we’re done here.”

A sigh. “Fine.”

The boy didn’t know he had been approaching the conversation gradually, and with a single misstep, he trips over the security guard’s leg and lands with a thud on his chest, creating a loud sound reverberating throughout the hall. The fear sets in once he pushes himself up and he locks eyes with the large silhouette of the bat, standing afar.

The shadow seems to stiffen, frozen in shock. “What are you doing here?”

“U-Uhh…” is all the boy can make come out of his mouth.

“Bat?” the female’s voice sounds panicked, cluttering sounds of glass breaking following her. “Bat, there’s a problem.”

“We’ll discuss it later,” the darkness retorts, walking towards the boy; he barely has any nerves yet to even stand up.

“L-Listen, okay,” the boy scoots backwards using his legs, holding his hands in surrender as the shadows loom larger over him. “I’m not gonna tell anyone about this.”

Something beneath the movement of his cape seems to threaten. “Where’d you come from?”

“Hey, I just walked from a late night interview for a paper. God, I won’t tell anyone, okay? I sw—”

“Bat!” and finally, the figure of a woman dressed in a leather cat suit with ears perched on her aviator helmet, and infrared goggles over her panicked eyes, runs over to the shadows and clutches a muscular arm hidden beneath his cape. “We need to go.  _Now.”_

The Bat narrows his eyes. “What did you do?”

She holds up her clawed hands. “It wasn’t me this time! I heard someone from behind the other side of the metal wall, and I—”

She’s interrupted as he holds up a finger. There’s silence in the air, and for that millisecond, that moment of quiet, the insignificant, almost miniscule sound of beeping alerts from nearby.

The Bat’s first instinct is to take the boy and the woman in his arms and cover them both with his cape.

A large explosion invades the air around them, bringing along a scorching heat felt through the fireproof material in his clothing, and force that’s enough to blow the large figure of the shadow to the wall. His back collides with the concrete, and if it isn’t for the Kevlar and titanium lining the armor around his nape, his neck would have snapped.

“Bat!” the woman yells, helping him stand as the boy gets up on his own. “Shit, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” the Bat groans, pulling himself upright.

Evacuation sirens blare all around them, bathing them in red spinning lights as about what little employees are here begin to evacuate the building. The boy stares into the hole made in the wall, the smell of molten iron filling the air as the fires begin to ignite behind the safe. But he can hear something else, something like a growl from behind the walls, brewing like the throaty warning of a hidden animal.

“That sound…” the boy frowns, backing away from the opening, “we gotta leave.”

The Bat and the Cat look to the hole, and the growling becomes the revving of a powerful engine as it speeds closer and closer at a faster rate. Before the boy even knows it, he’s pushed into the arms of the woman by a dark shadow, and the Bat takes his place facing the entrance. Suddenly, a purple Lamborghini bursts through the ripped concrete and metal, running towards the dark figure facing it. But before the hood could even touch him, he does a somersault and backflips over the car. Alloy, scrap steel, and glass shards scatter all over the place as the car crashes into the wall, but the Bat lands flawlessly on top of the roof.

The boy’s eyes widen in wonder, while the woman only smirks, as if she’s seen him do it a hundred times before.

Using the blades of his gauntlets, he rips open the hood of the car, only to find that no one had been sitting in the driver’s seat.

“Shit,” the Bat mutters.

“Behind ya, Batsy!”

A gunshot bursts through the air, and the Bat narrowly ducks it, rolling off the hood of the car. In the broken entrance stands a man and a woman in matching formal black tie wear, although the man’s suit, crumpled, undone, and untidy, doesn't go with his pale skin, tattoos, and slicked-back green hair. The woman, meanwhile, with her locks died pink and blue, has it coiled into a messy bun, the hem of her lavish dress ripped short above her knees, revealing her ruined heels and inked legs.

The harlequin cocks her ornate revolver as her lover spreads his arms. The Bat brandishes a sharp Batarang from his belt, the Cat moves the boy behind her.

“Well, now, ain’t this quite the night!” the jester laughs. “We came here for a prize, but I didn’t expect this to be a…double date.”

“This far from it, darling,” the Cat sneers, uncoiling her whip from her belt with a wicked snap.

The jester’s eyes widen in curiosity, and it’s the genuine interest in them that makes him terrifying. “Woah woah  _woah,_  there, kitty cat: if ya wanted to sell off the kinky dominatrix leather whip S&M shit, ya could’ve just told me so.”

The Bat’s eyes flash rage and he clenches his knuckles around the blunt edges of the Batarang. “One more word out of you and this thing goes deep in your chest.”

“Ooh, did Mistah J hit a soft spot there, Batsy?” the harlequin feigns shock in the most over-the-top way possible. “Must’ve taken a real genius to spell out your sex life right away, with a gal pal like  _that!”_

The Cat unsheathes her diamond-tipped claws. “Oh, you’re gonna get it—!”

“Cat, that’s enough,” the Bat sneers. “Get the kid out of here. I’ll take care of this.”

“No, ya won’t!” the jester laughs, drawing his pistol and cocking in the magazine.

The Bat turns. “Cat, go  _now!”_

“Fine by me,” the Cat says, and in one flick of her wrist, the whip spins around her waist and the handle is left at her hind side, giving her a tail-like appendage; sheathing her claws, she grabs the boy by the hand. “Let’s go, kid.”

The student doesn’t ask any questions and they speed down the hall, the sound of the Joker’s shouting for his female companion to go after them fading away.

By the time they’ve turned three corners, they hear the clacking of heels catching up to them from the end. And once they both turn around, they see a pale face with heart tattoos and bright neon hair chasing after them in her ripped evening gown, brandishing a loaded revolver that’s almost made to look as garish as possible, and a mallet strapped to her back.

“You ain’t gettin’ away from me!” the harlequin shouts, and shots follow her syllables.

The kid ducks on instinct and the bullets fly above him, with the Cat’s ears on her helmet being just barely hit.

“We aren’t gonna lose her like this!” the kid shouts, his breathing labored by the excessive running.

“I know,” the Cat replies, then stops to uncoil her whip from her body with a curl of her hand.

The kid ducks just in time so the lashes of the whip don’t hit him and instead wrap themselves around Harley’s wrist, disarming her of her gun. Pulling her towards her, the Cat prepares to lash out and claw her face, but the harlequin is quick to pull out her mallet and places it between them, blocking off the attack. With a hard push, she knocks the Cat back and pulls her to her up again using the whip at her wrist. But with a sharp angle of her hand, the whip uncoils itself and the Cat cracks the thing through the air, wrapping it around Harley’s leg before pulling her down to the floor.

And before the Cat could even make a move, a hand catches the mallet in mid-air and slams it down on Harley’s head, rendering her unconscious. The Cat looks up in shock, and the boy drops the weapon, stepping back from the woman out cold on the floor.

“Oh my God,” he mutters, “shit, shit, shit, did I just do that? Shit, I  _did_ just do that.”

“Yeah,” the Cat huffs, coiling the whip around her waist with a wrist movement.

“You think she’s gonna be okay? With a blow to the head that strong…”

The Cat puts her hands on her waist and looks at the unconscious face of the harlequin. “Pretty sure she’s had her fair share of concussions with an attitude like  _that.”_

The boy nods, trying to shake off what just happened. “Okay, alright. Gotcha, cat lady.”

She smirks. “Catwoman.”

The boy bites his lip. “Sorry.”

They’re on their way to the exit again, no longer running and instead simply walking incredibly fast. The glass windows of the lobby exit are just a flight of stairs away, when suddenly, the Cat stops her pace and puts a clawed hand on her chest, caving her body inwards.

“Agh,” she groans softly, gritting her teeth. “Shit, not now.”

The boy puts a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” the Cat licks her lips. “I-I’m fine, I just…yeah. I need to…stop for a bit.”

And she bends on one knee, using the shoulders of the boy to support her as she lowers herself. She notices he’s actually quite tall, but nearly as tall as the Bat himself; he has the face of a typical high school junior, with his curious eyes and thick brows. Messy black hair, skin blemished by a few soot marks from the explosion, and a backpack perched on his tired shoulders. The jeans he sports are tattered, but they’re not as dirty as the red jacket covering his arms and chest.

“Do you think the Batman will be okay?” the kid asks. “I mean, I know it’s a stupid question, but we kinda just left him alone with a deranged psycho.”

She gives a weak shrug. “A deranged psycho he’s gone toe toe-to-toe with multiple times. He’ll be fine.”

As if on cue, the distant sound of police start to close in, and through the window, the blare of the horns, the colored sirens, and the seal of the GCPD had never looked more welcoming to her.

* * *

The kid sits safely in one of the police cars, talking to his mother on his phone about what happened. GCPD quickly seal off the place and interview every single employee working the late night shift at Ace Chemials, including Doctor Ford, who had no idea any of this was going on. Some volunteers from the fire department make quick work of the broken safe, carefully cutting away any of the dangerous metal entrances and trying to make it less hazardous for any passing personnel. By the entrance of the lobby, Commissioner Gordon huffs on a cigarette as the Cat stands with her arms crossed, watching the shape of the shadows move out towards them from inside.

“You know,” Gordon comments, “not that I’d let resident cat burglar over here off the leash just yet for all the thieving back in the day, but it’s nice to know you’re using all the help you can get.”

The Cat turns to her partner. “See? Commissioner over here gets it.”

“It’s old news,” the Bat turns to her.

“Well, you were certainly taking your time in there,” the Cat tilts her head. “Was actually getting pretty worried.”

Gordon exhales smoke. “Were you able find him?”

“No,” the Bat says straightforwardly. “It’s most likely he’s escaped.”

Gordon’s trying to avoid showing frustration on his face, but it’s obvious he’s showing.

The unpleasant sound of screeching tires roll into the scene. All three of them turn back to see about six expensive-looking sleek black cars pull up right next to the parking lot the GCPD made out of the front lawn of Ace Chemicals. From the back seat of the first car, the daunting figure of a woman emerges from the back, clad in a blazer, with her entire business-looking entourage following her as she bypasses all GCPD tapes and boundaries into the crime scene. The suits scatter all over the area, beginning to trespass and stopping police from continuing to gather reports.

“Oh, _great,”_ the Commissioner groans.

“Gordon,” the woman chastises. “You better have a reasonable explanation for this one, because the situation doesn’t look too good for you.” She gives a loud scoff as she places her hands on her hips. “First week on the job and I come back to  _this._ Unbelievable.”

Gordon wipes his face and crushes his cigarette on the floor, looking at the Bat and his companion. “Don’t remember introducing you. This is Amanda Waller, Superior Director of the Agency.”

Waller looks at the two others in black. “We’ve met before. Didn’t get the memo about your cat thief girlfriend, though.”

“Yeah, I’ve got complaints on that word,” Selina quips.

“Which one?” Waller asks.

“All of them,” she smirks, and the Bat shoots her a glare, to which she only shrugs in apathy. Waller rolls her eyes, quick to dismiss them.

“I hope you’ve found something useful?” Waller prompts again.

The Bat pauses, then shakes his head. “The Joker escaped before the GCPD sealed off the place.”

Waller sighs.  _“Fantastic._  How many months of us tracking him down, and he slips right through our fingers again.”

“You have any idea on what he was after?” Gordon asks.

The Bat’s cape moves to the side, and he procures a small vial of something green, almost silvery in movement. “He broke into a safe containing samples of a strong artificial compound named BKN-40.” He hands the vial over to Gordon, who places it into an evidence bag. “Whatever the Joker wanted with it, we still don’t know.”

“And  _you_ were already at the safe when he broke into it,” Waller frowns. “What does someone like the Batman need with a rare chemical like that, huh?”

The Bat only narrows his eyes.

Selina puts her goggles up on her head. “Remind us again why she’s here?”

Gordon seems to bite his tongue before trying to phrase it in the least offensive way possible. “A few months ago, the Joker broke out Harley Quinn from the black site prison she’s been kept in. And as we’re all well-aware, Quinn’s a member of Waller’s task force, and so she’s on a mission to get her back. To do that, we have to get both  _her_  and the Joker.”

The Bat frowns. “This is  _my_ city. Whatever your concern is with the Joker and Quinn, you have to take it up with me.”

“Does it look like I ever even needed your permission?” Waller shoots back. “Feds already authorized me to team up with the local law enforcement in this place to get to the bottom of this. You’re all lucky the situation isn’t as bad as I’ve expected yet.”

“Yeah, when it does, I’m sure there’ll be hell to pay,” Gordon mutters.

“Oh, there will,” Waller quips back at him, and Gordon shuts his mouth.

“But once you have what you came for,” the Bat growls, “you better make sure you leave this place.”

“Once I get what I came for, you won’t even notice me go,” Waller replies. “It’ll all just depend on how fast you vigilante cowboys can fix this mess.”

Gordon’s lips tighten into a thin line and he ignores whatever she had said, and instead turning to the Bat. “Anything else you want me to do for tonight?”

The Bat scans the entire blockade of GCPD cars, keeping his gaze fixed on one. “Bring the boy home.”

Gordon nods. “It’s as good as done.”

Waller nods off in the direction of her agents. “Come with me, Gordon. You have case details to discuss with our forensics.”

“Right,” Gordon breathes, trying to shake off his annoyance.

They’re halfway down the staircase  to the lawn when Waller stops to turn around. “Oh, an—”

But when she looks, both the Bat and the Cat are gone, replaced by an almost eerie emptiness in the places where they should’ve been.

“What the hell?” Waller frowns.

“Annoying, isn’t it?” Gordon scoffs.

* * *

The car shudders to a stop as he jumps onto the ramp that holds it up. She follows him, albeit slowly, like a cat crawling out of its hiding place. The sound of rushing water is the first thing that fills her ears, the beeping of the computers in the background is as constant as the footsteps descending into the garage. The cold fresh breeze of the underground waterways hits her once she removes her helmet and goggles, combing her hand through her hair.

“Miss Kyle,” Alfred approaches the car, handing her a cup of tea. “I hope you didn’t tire yourself too much today.”

“I'm fine, thanks,” she takes the tea and sips it, the warmth spreading down to her stomach and helping calm her palpitating heart.

“Dammit,” Bruce mutters, his monstrous growl turning into his normal one halfway as he turns off his voice modulator. He removes the cowl off from his head with a hand and gently takes his coffee from Alfred in the other.

“I take it that your conversation with Waller didn’t go as planned?” Alfred asks.

“I didn’t even know it  _was_ planned,” Bruce downs half of his drink.

“She’s been asking quite a lot from you latey,” Alfred crosses his arms, “both as Bruce  _and_ the Bat.”

“No better than the GCPD, if you ask me,” Selina raises her eyebrows and sips her tea, prompting the two men to shoot glances at her. “What? At this point, you’re basically their brooding, rich errand boy.”

“At least the GCPD knows their boundaries,” Bruce hands his mug over to Alfred.

“That and they don’t know who you really are,” Alfred says, in too nonchalant a way for a serious subject matter.

Selina’s eyes widen in shock, and she nearly drops her mug. “Wait a second,  _Waller_ knows you’re Bruce Wayne?”

“I wouldn’t have gotten information on the League without her help,” Bruce explains. “I also got her out of a couple of legal skirmishes with that mess in Midway City, and she pointed me in the direction of Deadshot, so we owe each other a lot of favors.”

“Hm,” Selina presses her lips together, seemingly satisfied. “Just hope she wouldn’t do anything drastic with that information.”

“She wouldn’t dare,” Bruce wipes his face with a gloved hand.

“I suggest you rest for tonight, Sir,” Alfred advises, taking Selina’s cup. “That Joker mess can take care of itself faster, with both Gordon and Waller on the case with you.”

Bruce exhales.

“Have a good night, you two,” Alfred nods.

“Goodnight to you too, Al,” Selina smiles back.

Alfred ascends up the stairs, leaving Bruce and Selina alone next to the car, whose engine was already humming down, its lights dimming as it locks its own doors. The sound of the waterways cascading over the rocks beneath them seems calming, almost as if they’re standing next to some oasis. And in some respects, this place is one.

“Are you okay?” he asks suddenly.

She turns to him, looking as sly as ever. “I guess. I didn’t die earlier, so that’s something.”

He huffs, walking over to her. “I’m serious, Selina.”

She smirks. “Aren’t you always?”

They stand in front of each other, eyes locked, about less than a foot apart. Gone are the masks covering their faces, but the costumes stay on, the smell of sweat from the both of them meeting in the middle. (And to Selina, admittedly, he looks so much more attractive in the suit without the cowl, his handsome face no longer obscured by the shadows.)

One of his gloved hands goes to hold her face gently. “So there were no aches, no burning sensations or arrhythmia.”

She shakes her head. “Nope.”

They’re silent, still, unmoving.

“Don’t lie to me,” he presses, but he’s gentle about it, his voice soft. “Please.”

She sighs and flashes him a look, the kind of one kids give their parents when they’ve been found out to be lying. “Okay, so  _maybe_ I kinda got a little heart pain earlier, but that’s behind us now…right?”

He sighs in exasperation. “Selina, your condition is delicate. You should’ve told me.”

“We were in the middle of a fight, Bats. What would you have done about it?” She leans into his hand, his touch warm. “Call the car and drive me off? Ask Alfred to babysit me? Leave?”

He looks into her eyes. “If I had to.”

Gently taking her head between his hands, he presses a kiss on her forehead. The warmth of his body is so welcoming and comforting, she’s surprised she doesn’t fall asleep right away once he embraces her.

* * *

Somewhere in Gotham City’s midtown, the same teenager caught in the crossfires between the Joker and the Bat lies on his bed, staring at the dark ceiling of his bedroom. His new shirt and sweats make him a little bit more comfortable than when he was in those tattered jeans and hoodie from the fight, the bath he took earlier rubbed off any traces of dirt from the entire incident.

But the gears in his mind are turning, working. They don’t stop, even when he wants them to.

He gets up, reaching for his flashlight on the nightstand, and clicks it on, putting the end of it between his teeth. Rummaging through his backpack from earlier that night, he looks for the Polaroid pictures he had taken earlier, right in the front pocket. He counts them as they sift through his hands: one of the Bat and Cat talking to the Joker and Harley, one of the silhouette standing on the purple Lamborghini, the other of the cat lady from behind.

Walking over to corkboard on the other end of his room, he takes a few thumb tacks and nails the pictures in their specific categories, each in the area he clumped the rest of his bits and pieces with. And as he takes a step back to shine his flashlight over the entire stretch, he could only smile.

News clippings cut crudely from  _The Gotham Gazette_ and various tabloids invaded the whole board, whether it was about the city’s favorite billionaire playboy or vigilante bat, the existence of the now-missing boy wonder, about the elusive cat burglar or a certain ex from the past. Polaroid pictures of Wayne Tower, the old Manor, each side of the block that the GCPD stood on, accompany various snippets of a map of Gotham City, blueprints for building schematics, photocopy dossiers of various rogues gallery members, and so much more. Each and every single scrap is connected by thin red yarn strings, all of them intersecting, tying together, moving farther apart, creating a large web of a great conspiracy.

And in the center of the web lies a sentence written in large black marker:

IS BRUCE WAYNE THE BATMAN?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m also going to assume based on how Waller is able to contact Batman and her dialogue with Bruce in the end-credits scene from _Suicide Squad_ that she’s one of the only people who knows his identity.


	2. The Deed to Warehouse 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhibit 24.4: The official statement of ownership of Warehouse 47 of Gotham City Harbor. While the place is abandoned, that specific lot is owned by the late Carmine Falcone and thus the entire Falcone family has property rights to the area.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch out for a reference to Harvey Dent's fate in another Loeb and Sale masterpiece _The Long Halloween._
> 
> Bruce is like, multilingual, right? The man has a genius IQ, right? _RIGHT?_

He sets a pile of case files on one end of his office desk, compiling everything he can on the Joker and Quinn, when he hears a knock on the door. The silhouette of the figure behind the frosted glass is tall and looming, but not at all intimidating.

“Come in,” he says absentmindedly.

The door opens to reveal a large man with an even scruffier beard, obscuring the lines on his gaunt face and the evident gray streaks in his hair. The suit he’s wearing is supposed to make him look like a professional, but it ends up only making him look like one of those sycophants around Gotham’s gentility, with how ill-fitting it is on his body.

“Commissioner Gordon,” the man in the suit greets, but the way he says it laces itself in sarcasm, as if he was mocking the title.

“Attorney Burnham,” Gordon stands, his brows furrowing; twenty years of being the head of the GCPD gave him the ability to smell bullshit a mile away, and this had all the red flags planted around it. “About time you showed up. I’ve been phoning your secretary for an entire week.”

“Right,” Burnham says, standing in front of Gordon’s desk. “Sorry about all that. Business and cases, you know the drill.”

Gordon resists the urge to narrow his eyes. It isn’t fresh news to him that Attorney Burnham remains to be one of the most corrupt politicians in Gotham’s history. Instead of working on any actual court meetings or pleadings, he spent most of his ‘busy nights’ in the Iceberg Lounge or at exclusive invite only galas at the Skyline, having sex with every single woman in the party except for his wife, drinking until his stomach expelled its contents. He’s surprised that the mayor hadn’t found out yet. (Or maybe he did, which makes it even worse.)

Of course, Burnham only knows Gordon as the office’s obedient watchdog, naïve over everything that involved politics and the elite. The bastard had never been more wrong.

“With the feds roaming our city now,” Gordon pushes his glasses higher up his nose, “I expected you to take this case a little bit more seriously.”

“Is this about Amanda Waller?” Burnham scoffs. “She’s in _our_ territory, we don’t have anything to worry about.”

Though Gordon agreed that he wanted Waller out of his hair as soon as possible, at least _she_ was doing something. “We have a green-haired homicidal maniac and his murderous girlfriend out there on the streets, right under our noses, and we don’t have anything to worry about?”

Burnham pauses for a while, then shrugs. “Hey, I’m only being optimistic.”

Gordon massages the bridge of his nose. “Optimism isn’t what we need right now, we need men on the streets and your department building a detainment case.”

“Consider it done.” ‘Done’ in this sentence meaning ‘never to be accomplished.’

Gordon sighs, shutting his eyes.

“Commissioner.”

Gordon looks up, tired. “Yeah?”

The Attorney’s brow furrows, his smile awry. It’s a look of concern, which is something Gordon isn’t used to. “Eventually, you’re going to have to take a break. This city’s crime rates will catch up to a point where you can’t do anything about them anymore.”

Gordon feels rage brew up in his stomach. “Well, with all due respect, Attorney, I’d much rather die out there than sit in this damn office doing absolutely fucking nothing, living every single day of my miserable life knowing I could’ve done something.”

 _That_ shut him up; Burnham opens his mouth, closes it again, and then looks away. “Fair point.”

Gordon sits back down in his chair, covering his face.

“If that’s all you needed me for,” Burnham points to the exit, “I’ll be leaving now. Good day, Commissioner.”

Gordon says nothing as the door opens then shuts, leaving him alone in the uncomfortable solace of his office. It gives him enough time to examine his life, with the words that the DA left him.

He wonders why, of all people that the screwed-up nature of Gotham could have targeted, they avoid all of the people that should’ve been hit. Of course, not that he wanted the nobility struck down, he’d never wish that on a fellow Gothamite; but he’s always noticed a pattern with these kinds of tragedies.

He reaches out on his desk to pick up a framed picture of his daughter, sitting on her wheelchair in front of their new apartment. Her red hair could never be as bright and eye-catching as her smile, but he knows she’ll never be as happy as she was when she used to walk.

He drops the photograph and wipes his face.

She used to _walk._

He’s a good cop, an honest one, and that’s why he’s so broken. It’s what gets him through the awful days, the tiring nights, the sadness, the heartache and tears. He could only imagine what it must be like for someone like the Bat; it already happened too many times, the most recent one occuring a few months ago, that incident with Thomas Elliot and Selina Kyle.

It’s always the heroes of this city are the often the most tragic.

And maybe that’s why Burnham’s sitting in the DA’s office, why Gordon misses Harvey Dent so much. He was a hero. A good man.

And he knows all too well what happens to good men in Gotham.

* * *

“No, don’t call a cab,” he says into his phone, pacing in front of the desk of his office as he stares out wall of a window behind him. “I’ll be the one to pick you up. Did Alfred send you the gear?”

“He did,” the other end of the phone replies, and he hears the meowing of more than ten cats in the background. “He also sent me the dress you ordered for me. Are you leaving already?”

“Yeah. I’ll be on my way in a few minutes.”

“See you then. Bye, Bat.”

“Bye, Cat.”

Hanging up and pocketing his phone, he watches as his laptop shuts down, erasing all traces of search history he had made in the cave’s supercomputer hardware and uploading it into its main server. The press could call him all sorts of synonyms for lazy just for going into his office and sitting in a nice leather chair, but they had absolutely no clue.

He’s about to pack the thing into a briefcase when a knock sounds on his large oak doors, and he doesn’t even say a thing before they burst open. Waller strides into the room with a man in a suit following her, the expression on her face looking a little bit less than pleased and a notch over pissed off.

“Director Waller,” Bruce frowns, turning to her.

“Mr. Wayne,” she continues, and her assistant from behind gives her a folder. “There are some urgent matters to discuss.”

“If you want me to entertain you, you should’ve reserved an appointment like everyone else.”

“Well, I don’t know how long it’ll take you to realize that I’m not like ‘everyone else’.”

He looks at the time on his Rolex watch and calculates how many minutes it would take to get dressed and drop by Selina’s place. “This better be important.”

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.” She nods over to her assistant. “Rodrigues, step outside for a minute.”

Her assistant nods, then presses into his communicator and leaves the room, shutting the two both inside with a reverberating sound of the large door closing.

“What’s this about?” he inquires.

She procures a number of photographs from the file. “We have reason to believe that the Joker might be building up his own criminal empire from scratch, recruiting old members from the mafia wars of Gotham.”

He looks at the pictures, and they’re blurry but clear enough to see green hair making shady deals with trench coats and fedora hats in some abandoned part of Gotham Harbor. He remembers that entire fiasco that ended the gangs that drove illegal money circulation into the city, the conflict that involved the late Carmine “the Roman” Falcone, a meddling that would eventually lead him to his death at the hands of assassins.

Admittedly, his younger years at the Bat were much more exciting.

“And what do you want me to do with this information?” he asks as she hands the file to him.

“Give it to Gordon,” she says. “With his troops in their home ground, they’ll be able to find these suspects quicker than my people.”

He takes a deep breath, pushing the folder back into her hands as he paces to his desk. “Give it to him yourself.”

Her tone turns bitter as he begins to pack his laptop. “You know Gordon and I aren’t on the best of terms, and the quickest way to build that bridge is through the Bat.”

Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he only stares her right in the eye. “Unlike your Task Force X, I’m not something you could just order around.”

She scoffs. “The GCPD certainly treats you like their errand dog.”

“I’m far from it. If anything, they depend on me.”

“Call it what you want, Mr. Wayne. My point is, it won’t hurt to help me and Gordon cooperate.”

He walks past her, brushing her shoulder but not pushing or nudging it. “You two created this rift on your own, you close it on your own. I’m only there to do the things both of you can’t do, and I’m certain this petty problem of yours can be fixed if you only stop throwing rocks and insults at each other.”

She watches as he opens the door. “I don’t remember you being this unreasonable.”

He seems to smirk back at her, but his sarcasm is bursting through the seams. “I don’t remember you being this cowardly either, so we’ve both failed our expectations of one another, now haven’t we?”

She presses her lips into a thin line and he proceeds to leave.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, Director,” he says as he exits, “I have a birthday party to attend.”

* * *

He hands over their invitation to the guard in the suit as he loops his arm around her waist. Upon entering the grand ballroom of the Falcone penthouse, he takes a moment to let himself absorb his surroundings. The entire place is bathed in light and music, suits and dresses, champagne and wine and luxury. Looking at all the extravagant décor and cronies that surround the whole expanse gives him another reason why he should save this city instead of discouraging him from helping it. Maybe every single dollar used to finance this event came from illegal cartels and alliances to other crime families.

“You have a master plan yet?” Selina says at his side. “Or do I have to improvise on my own?”

The dress he had bought for her was expensive, but it was definitely worth it to see her in it tonight. The neck line is high enough to conceal the scar on her chest, low enough to reveal the fair skin of her shoulders and arms. The satin and chiffon of her long trail brushes his legs even through the cloth of his pricey slacks. Her hair is styled and slicked back so not a lock of hair was out of place, and her make up only makes more evident just how beautiful she is.

“We’ll split up,” he says. “You take Volpe and Enrico. I’ll handle the birthday celebrant and his mother.”

“Split up?” her brows arc, and the sly smile spreads on her face. “That’s a shame; would’ve wanted to spend the evening with you.”

He tries to hide the fact that his face is burning red. “We aren’t here for leisure.”

“This outfit you got me certainly spells leisure.” She tilts her head to the side, smiling at a few guests who whisper as they walk by. “They’re looking at us.”

“No,” he says, pressing his mouth to her earlobe. “They’re looking at you.”

“I’m sure handsome billionaire philanthropist screams louder than convicted cat burglar.”

“If that certain cat burglar didn’t look so damn lovely tonight.”

He could practically hear her eyes roll. “The flirting could work on your Ukrainian supermodel dates, but it won’t work on me.”

Something in both their ears clears its throat, and the communicators transmit Alfred’s voice to them. “Once you two are done bickering like an elderly married couple, I suggest we go back to the matter at hand.”

A figure catches both of their eyes as he crosses a few feet before them, a man in a nice-looking suit and his hair slicked back, beard neatly trimmed as he goes around shaking hands of various guests. It’s his eyes that set him apart from all the rest: a deep, dark, mysterious gray.

“There’s your target,” Bruce whispers. “Be careful.”

“You know me: I’m always careful,” Selina says, giving him a quick kiss on his cheek before waving. “Bye, boyfriend.”

He’s about to complain about how she should stop calling him that, but she’s out of earshot in a few clicks of her shoes, already next to Volpe Falcone and pulling him into a private conversation. Bruce knows the feeling of envy well enough, and he tries to stop the jealousy brewing in his stomach.

“Boyfriend, hm?”

He turns around to see a woman about a decade younger than him, fair-looking, tall, beautiful, her curly blonde hair cascading down her shoulders like a waterfall of gold. Her gown is more than extravagant, with all the detail into its fine silk embroidery that any person could get their eyes lost in the fine patterns.

 _“Signora_ Claudia Crescenta,” he greets, holding out his hand.

“Please, _Signor_ Wayne,” she takes his greeting, feigning a smile; the long vowels and hard consonants are still evident in her accent. “No need for such formalities. I was just curious as to your new flame over there.”

Looking back at Selina and Volpe, who are busy laughing over a drink, he just hopes that she remembers what they’re actually here for. “Oh, she’s not a new flame.”

Claudia’s eyes widen; she had always been known as a stickler for gossip within the gentility, and that reputation hadn’t preceded her. “Did I hear that right? I know rich boys like you have quite the fear of commitment, but I never thought that _you_ of all people could ever… _mio Dio!”_

He fakes a laugh (and wow, does that sound painful). “Well, I’m only human.”

“What’s the lucky lady’s name?”

“Selina.”

She gasps. “Selina? Selina Kyle? That notorious cat burglar? Why, I always thought she was after the Batman’s attention this whole time.”

He pauses for a while to take that in. “So did I.”

Mentally, he runs down everything he needs to know in less than five seconds: Claudia Crescenta, the second youngest daughter of the late Carmine “the Roman” Falcone, former head of the Falcone mafia and dethroned king of the Gotham underworld. Married into the Crescenta clan as to perhaps build ties with them, since they’re more or less well-known as a powerful family in Florida. Her only son, Massimo Crescenta, is having his 18th birthday party today.

Usually, at said 18th birthday, it would come as a rite of passage that the heir to the mafia would often be given all of the privileges of learning the basics of treading the underground in order to succeed the head. In this case, it’s most likely Massimo’s uncle Volpe, who, in the past weeks, has given Bruce enough evidence to feed his theory that the mafia didn’t die with Falcone.

It fact, he had a feeling it was reborn from it.

“Tread carefully, Sir,” the communicator replies in his ear in Alfred’s voice. “We don’t want to give away our true purpose here.”

“I’m curious, Claudia,” he says, mustering as much charm as he can without wanting to explode in exasperation. “I know your family’s rich and capable of financing itself, so I’m here wondering why your brother Volpe pushed for the board of my company to approve a loan.”

She blinks, dumbfounded. “A loan?”

“Yes, for about 5 million dollars.”

She scoffs, and like all her movements, it too was exaggerated. “Nonsense, Volpe would never do something like that. He very well knows that the Falcones have enough money as it is!”

“Would you know why he’d ever ask for something?”

“Other than the fact that both our families are quite close to one another, no, I wouldn’t.”

That’s the first mistake, Bruce notes: she thinks they’ve bonded close enough. Well, saving a life doesn’t warrantee a full pass for trust. “That’s interesting.”

“Don’t you worry, _Signor_ Wayne. I’ll be sure to talk to him once this whole thing is over.”

He reads her body language, conscious for even the slightest bit of movement in her face. “That’s good to hear. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to greet your son a happy birthday.” He procures a small box from the inside of his suit jacket. “I have something to give him.”

“Oh, aren’t you just gracious,” Claudia smiles. “He’s by the balcony. You’ll be lucky if you could catch him alone.”

 _“Grazie per la tua ospitalità, Signora,”_ he says fluently, taking her palm and kissing her knuckles gently.

While the playboy act can get quite boring and embarrassing quite fast, the flustered look on the faces that he flatters never gets old.

Taking his leave, he makes his way through the crowd, tuning into Selina’s conversation with the press of a button on his communication device.

“The thing is, _Signorita,_ it gets very…complicated when it comes to matters such as that,” Volpe’s accent is just as thick as his sister’s, but more charming than his father’s. “Not to mention rather personal as well.”

“Oh, my, I’m so sorry,” Selina says in reply, laying on the sympathy incredibly thick. “I was just curious, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You know what they say, _mio cara:_ curiosity killed the cat.”

She chuckles. “You definitely aren’t the first man to say that to me, Mr. Falcone.”

“I’ve told you that’s my father’s name, not mine. Call me Volpe.”

Bruce turns his head to see a young man by the veranda, drinking a flute of champagne on his own. Pushing his way around through the crowd towards the door, he fixes his tie and picks up his pace, as if trying to outrun the conversation playing in his ears.

“Fine, then…Volpe,” the name rolls of Selina’s tongue in a way that sends Bruce’s heart pounding. “It’s just…the mysterious circumstances over your father’s passing, not to mention all the news hounding your doorstep…it’s all strange, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, what happened to him was certainly…well, odd is a start.”

“So you’re taking quite the risk to be throwing a public celebration like this.”

He chuckles. “I would throw one every night, if it means women like you would be coming through my doors.”

She giggles coquettishly. “I’m sure you say that to all women.”

“Mm, not all. Who’s the lucky _uomo_ you came in with tonight? I should be thanking him.”

“He isn’t important at the moment. Don’t you agree?”

_It’s all part of the act, it’s only an act._

Bruce’s jaw clenches as he opens the door to the balcony, the winds of the Gotham whipping around his suit as he begins tuning off the conversation. Either because he has to focus or he can’t take much more of it, he can’t tell. What he focuses in instead is the figure there, a shadow dimly lit by the city lights.

“Didn’t know that rich boys liked to spend their special occasions in solitude,” Bruce greets, standing by the doorway to the balcony.

The boy drinking alone there lets out a scoff, but doesn’t look back. “That’s quite the statement coming from someone like you, _Signor_ Wayne.”

He gives a bittersweet smile.

The boy turns around to look at Bruce. The blond of his mother’s hair evident in the night lights, the gray of his uncle’s eyes seem to reflect Bruce’s figure back at him, watching with every movement. But there’s a youthful vigor in the way he moves, a kind of idealism in the way he speaks, something that none of his family have.

“They used to tell stories about you,” Massimo speaks in a monotone fashion. “They called you the son of Gotham, the savior of this city, all these fancy titles that every single one of the elite battled for.”

“Yeah, that second one is pretty much up for debate.”

Massimo turns back to look out at Gotham’s skyline, the lights of the city from down below lining his silhouette. “I shouldn’t be saying this to you, but my family quite admires your skill, your craft. My grandfather used to call it grit, and he said to me when I was younger, ‘Listen to me, _ragazzo,_ when you grow up, you be someone like Bruce Wayne.’”

It’s hard to imagine Carmine Falcone ever saying that. “Really?”

Massimo nods, and there’s a hint of reluctance and hesitation in each and every single one of his movements. He leans on the balustrade as Bruce walks then stands beside him, pocketing his hands.

“May I ask you something?” Massimo says.

“Yeah?” Bruce replies.

“How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Rise above the tragedy of your family, the misfortune that haunts your name. How did you transform the death of those you love into something more?”

Bruce sighs, trying to push away images flashing in his mind again: a gun, a dark alleyway, the sound of falling pearls. “Is this about Carmine Falcone?”

Massimo dips his head, letting out a tired breath. “I was told he was killed by Harvey Dent when I was only a few months old. I never knew him personally, but my mother, every single one of my relatives…they say I look like him, that I’ll soon become him or even greater than he’ll ever dream of being. They say they see potential in me.”

Bruce knows what he’s talking about, but he can’t give away the impression that he continues to be naïve. “What are you talking about?”

Massimo pauses, as if choosing his next few words carefully. “May I tell you a secret, _Signor_ Wayne?”

Bruce turns to look at him, and though he has the gray eyes of the Falcones, there is no ill intent behind them.

“This birthday of mine, it marks something big,” Massimo continues, gravely, almost fervent. “I’m going to be…taking a big responsibility. _Unculo_ Volpe will be teaching me about how to lead the Falcones. But I know that what he does, what the _family_ does, it’s all…”

Massimo presses his lips together, only confirming Bruce’s suspicions.

“It’s all what?” Bruce asks.

“Nothing, it’s…” Massimo shakes his head, shutting his eyes, “it’s all just…I don’t want to get involved in it. I want my family to be a better asset to Gotham, use all this money for good…like you.”

Bruce stops to look at Massimo, and behind his stained family tree, behind the blood that runs through his veins and the damage they had done to the city, is a heart of gold more precious than all the wealth the nobility of Gotham accumulated since its existence.

“If you want to, then go,” Bruce says earnestly; if he can prevent another war with a few words rather than an exchange of fists, he’ll jump at the chance. “No one’s telling you how to live your life. You don’t have to be tied down to your past; build something up from it, learn from it.”

Massimo takes a moment to absorb that. “And if my family disagrees?”

“You might share their name, but you don’t share their goals. Talk to them, convince them. And I don’t mean to be a bad influence on you, but if they disagree, it’s up to you whether to stick with it or go against it.”

The boy lets out a scoff. “You claim to be a bad influence, but you’re presenting it quite attractively, _Signor_ Wayne.”

Bruce shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a CEO.”

Massimo laughs softly, ringing with relief, but when it fades, his grin remains. “These days have been rather hard on me, and it’s good I can confide in someone.”

Bruce realizes that the fact that Massimo confides in someone outside his family, someone who he had looked up to since he was a child, says something about his family. “I should be thanking you.”

“How so?”

“You’re not like the rest of your family. And knowing their complicated past, I believe it’s a good thing. Visions like yours are what’s gonna pull Gotham up from where it’s at right now.” And Bruce pulls put the small box from inside his jacket, giving it to the boy. "One of my older watches, so you'd never be late to anything. _Buon compleanno."_

Massimo smiles, and the gray in his eyes no longer belongs to the Falcones, and instead to his own. “Thank you.”

* * *

They meet the valet assistant by the driveway of the Falcone penthouse, with other luxury cars already lining the block. The uniformed employee hands over the keys of Bruce’s sleek black Mustang, and politely opens the door for his companion to get inside. Once Bruce eases himself into the driver’s seat and Selina’s comfortable riding shotgun, he revs up the engine and drives into the night.

“So,” Bruce says, looking briefly at her. “What did you discover?”

“Volpe’s having this project,” Selina reveals. “He’s been keeping a prize in some warehouse in Gotham City Harbor.”

He frowns. “The warehouse lot there’s abandoned.”

She holds up a finger. “But Enrico confirms it’s owned by the Falcones. What did Massimo say?”

“He’s established that the mafia of the Falcones didn’t die with the wars. Volpe’s heading them now, soon to groom Claudia’s son into another version of his grandfather.” He remembers their conversation, and how relieved his is that the youngest Falcone has a different view of the city. “He’s not like his family. He wants to do good things.”

“I’ll bet. I’m just here wondering what goodies await curious cat burglars in that warehouse of theirs.”

“They’re definitely not yours to keep, that’s for sure.”

She fakes a pout. “You never let me have fun anymore.”

He arcs his brows, a ghost of a smile appearing on his face. “We’ve had our fill of that ten years ago.”

Leaning back in her chair, she sighs. “You’ve really become an old man, you know that?”

Scoffing, he carefully turns right. “How’d you manage to get that information out of them anyway?”

“Volpe and Enrico tend to blabber a lot, if you let them drink enough wine. Flirting is a quick tactic to get them to talk too.”

He gives a bitter smile. “You sure had a lot of fun there.”

Her hand waves off in a dismissive gesture, as if she wants them to be playing another verbal game of cat-and-mouse. “Of course I did. Expensive drinks, handsome men, making my billionaire boyfriend jealous…”

He sighs, slowing down the car as they reach a stoplight on Main Street. “I’m not your boyfriend.”

“Sure you aren’t. Now keep your eyes on the road, unless you want your pretty car ruined.”

* * *

Inside a coffee shop that’s about to call it a night, the baristas all look at a teenager in the corner, who had already ordered his fourth cup of espresso. His laptop is on the desk in front of him, beeping noisily and disturbing the little customers that were already there, and the multiple papers scattered around him clued new visitors that he had been there a while. His headphones are perched lopsidedly on his ears as he types cryptic codes onto his screen.

“Come on,” he pleads to his computer as it tracks down the hacking device. “Come on, come on, come on…”

And a message flashes on the screen:

DEVICE #7463 FOUND  
SENDING FEED…

He celebrates a silent victory as the customers look at him like he had just escaped from Arkham. And truly, his efforts tonight warranted it: he had gone through the entire valet parking inquiring people which car was Bruce Wayne’s, then he attached his own homemade hacking device to the car’s speakers. The conversation is fed into his headphones as his computer began transcribing it effectively.

“So, where are we off to tomorrow night?” a man’s voice, Bruce Wayne’s voice, speaks.

A woman yawns, most likely Selina Kyle. “Address is number 47, Gotham City Harbor.”

“Great. I’ll give the GCPD a head’s up so they can get ready.”

“You can take care of that mess with Gordon and the boys, can’t you? I don’t want to push myself too hard this time around.”

He scoffs. “Understandable.”

He’s probably trying to supress a laugh, because she sounds confused. “Why are you smiling?”

“Nothing, it’s just that usually, _I’m_ the one telling you to take your breaks.”

“Well, aren’t you proud of me?”

“Can’t say I’m not.”

The boy scribbles down notes as they keep talking. If the Batman will show up there tomorrow, it will only confirm his suspicions even further, giving Wayne less of a reason to lie.

Warehouse 47, tomorrow evening.

* * *

It’s late and the young Falcone knows it. He knocks on his mother’s bedroom, ready to speak to her about how he wants to divert himself from his family’s criminal past, to use their wealth for good instead of using it for maliciousness or keeping it to themselves. Maybe it would have been better to talk to Volpe about it, but if he couldn’t confide in his mother, then who else? Gotham has had enough, and if his grandfather ever wanted anything, it’s this.

He knocks again. “Mother, it’s Massimo.”

A pause, a deadly silence.

Another knock. “Mother?”

He’s hand enough of this. He opens the door, stepping into the dark room, lit by a lone lamp on the nightstand. But when his eyes scan his surroundings and sees what had become of his mother on the floor, he drops to his knees and lets out a scream, the tears stream down his face. The sounds of distress from the poor boy wake Volpe and all the staff from the other side of the house.

Claudia Crescenta had been assassinated, the bullet hole going straight between her eyes. Her crimson blood had stained the lavish carpets, turning them redder than they already are.


	3. Seven .42 Caliber Bullet Shells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhibit 17.1: Seven shells of a .42 caliber .50 BMG sniper rifle, a weapon used by none other than ~~former~~ Task Force X member Floyd Lawton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I began plotting this story, I realized that I’m halfway into becoming Tom King in the sense that I have at least one BatCat scene per chapter. And speaking of Tom King, I’m ripping him off again from a small scene in _Batman #38._ That or from Zack Snyder’s _Batman v Superman._ You’ll know when you see it.

Out in the view of the public eye behind police tape and media, the GCPD walls off the watchers from the fire that burns Warehouse 47 to the ground. Against the darkness of the night sky, the fires reach up to the heavens, heating the cold air of the night with their vibrant colors and defiant roaring. Policemen are clearing the area to make way for the fire department, already hosing the place down. However, everyone at the scene is aware that whatever had been burned inside that warehouse was beyond saving; it's probably nothing but ashes. In the shadows of the flames of Warehouse 47, far from civilians’ eyes, Gordon lights a cigar while the shadows shift beside him.

“Thanks for the call,” Gordon says. “How you figured where Falcone hid his stockpile cash, I’ll never know.”

“It looked like more than a handful of billions,” the darkness growls.

“Still…” Gordon huffs, wiping his face, “we’re driving the last of the Falcones into the corner. This hit on their bank accounts won’t be good for them, and the fact that we don’t have a lot of info on what happened to Claudia Crescenta isn’t gonna help either.”

The Bat clenches his jaw. He doesn’t have a lot of details on how she died either, even with what the GCPD could scrounge up. All that was found on the scene were seven bullet capsules scattered around the poor woman’s body, which, by itself, couldn’t lead much anywhere.

As if on cue, four black cars roll up at the scene, and out spill various suits and feds uniforms to further investigate the area, immediately parting the crowd with the sheer power of their presence alone. Waller emerges from one of the cars, immediately locking eyes with Gordon from across the compound.

“The evening’s about to get even better,” Gordon sighs, the sarcasm dripping over his tired words as she makes their way to them.

“If you all think that you’ve done enough, you’re all horribly wrong,” Waller reprimands, as she always does, crossing her arms. “Claudia Crescenta is dead. The killer is nowhere to be found and we’ve just given the Falcones enough reason to sue.”

“Well, we’re investigating this, so it’s sure more than what _you’re_ doing right now,” Gordon complains.

There’s a smug look on her face as she pulls out a folder from her suitcase. “Actually, while you two were busy here chasing burning money, I’ve tried identifying the killer, and it’s pretty obvious as to who it is that I’m surprised ‘world’s greatest detective’ over here didn’t get it. Maybe he isn’t as impressive as I thought.”

The Bat narrows his eyes. “You better be right about this killer, or your next words will be the last ones you’ll ever say to me again.”

“And people say they’re fed up over _my_ pride,” Waller scoffs, opening her case files. “The killer is Deadshot.”

“Floyd Lawton?” Gordon says, dumbfounded. “But he’s—”

“I think I know the members of my own task force very well, Gordon,” Waller interrupts, pulling out details. “The bullet shells come from a .50 BMG sniper rifle, .42 caliber. The shot was placed in the middle of the bridge of the nose, right between the eyes. The knife incision made in her arm is from a standard combat knife. Who else fits that kind of category for MO, hm? Harkness?”

The Bat looks to the burning warehouse. “I thought that Lawton was under detainment in Belle Reve.”

“He is, which makes it strange. I’ve sent Rodrigues to check if his detention records and surveillance had been tampered with.”

“We all know that Waller’s state-of-the-art prison isn’t the best,” Gordon sneers. “If Harley Quinn could escape from there, then anyone could.”

“And Blackgate Prison and Arkham Asylum are the best in the state,” Waller retorts. “It’s obvious that your penitentiaries are so effective, with how Gotham City’s looking now.”

Gordon stiffens. “Why, you—!”

“Enough,” the Bat chastises, stepping in between them and shooting them glares that didn’t intimidate them in the least. “You two are no better than children. We won’t get closer to solving this if you don’t start cooperating.”

Waller and Gordon stare at each other, as if locked in an eternal rivalry of who could look more threatening.

“I’ll do an investigation of my own,” the Bat says, pressing a button on his gauntlet to summon the car. “Make sure you two aren’t at each other’s throats when you finally have more information for me.”

The two watch on as they hear the roar of an engine, a black massive tank of a car emerging from the corner, all sharp angles and titanium armor. The hatch to the driver’s seat hisses open as the Bat jumps up on the roof, shooting himself through the entrance as the doors seal themselves shut. The dashboard panel lights up before him, showing him an extensive view of maps and surveillance around Gotham. And as he flips on the ignition, he tries to ignore the fact that earlier he saw the light of a camera flashing in his direction, not aiming at the fire or the police, but instead at him.

* * *

What wakes her isn’t the meowing of her cats or her alarm clock, it’s a knock on the door. Pushing herself out of her sheets and putting on an old pair of shorts lying on the floor, she fixes on one of the polo shirts left at her place, the cats growing more agitated by the second.

The knock sounds again.

“Coming!” she yawns, stretching as she walks across her living room and unlatches the chain on her door.

Standing there is a young boy in a bomber jacket and jeans, his dark hair disheveled and a GCHS lanyard around his neck. It’s the boy from a few nights ago, the one she and Bruce had rescued from the Joker at Ace Chemicals. If it’s not the curious eyes, it’s the backpack that gives it away.

“Uh…hi, there,” he says, twirling the pen in his hands. “You’re Selina Kyle, right?”

“That depends,” she answers, leaning on the door sill.

“Listen, I just needed to clarify something. Bruce Wayne, you know the guy. You two are dating, so you have his contact number, right?”

Her breathing stops, and her patched heart shudders dead, but she tries not to let it show. He revealed the fact that he knows so much in less than a few words. _“Woah,_ okay? Just hold on a second there. Last time I checked, random strangers don’t have the right to just barge into a lady’s apartment and ask about her love life.”

He sighs, holding his bag strap with a free hand. “I know it’s weird, but it’s _really_ important that I should ask you this. I don’t really understand why you want to hide your relationship from the media, but I’m not as persistent as TV reports or gossip channel hosts. I know you two are dating.”

 _“Were_ dating. He’s an ex.”

“Not since six months ago, he isn’t. That business with Thomas Elliot pretty much solidified it.” He shrugs, almost as if he’s mocking the gesture. “Actually, that whole ordeal makes you think about why someone like the _Batman_ would care about you so much that he’d go get your heart from that monster of a doctor.”

She frowns; he’s being awfully smart. “How do you know all this? Hell, how do you even know where I live?”

“Let’s just say I consider myself a good detective.”

She frowns, both impressed and concerned.

He stops, blinks, and shakes his head. “Wait, look, that’s not the point. I came here to ask if you know where he’d be, or if you have any contact details that could help me get to him.”

She crosses her arms, defiant. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, because first and foremost: Bruce Wayne and I aren’t dating anymore.”

He pauses for a while as he looks at her, scanning her appearance. “You’re wearing his shirt.”

She looks down at what she sports. “It’s a cheap one you could find at any thrift shop in East End.”

“The label reads Ralph Lauren.”

She looks at the tag hanging from the back (as she thinks about how incredible his eyesight is), but shrugs. “What if I like Ralph Lauren?”

He quirks his eyebrow. “You’re _really_ the type of person to spend a hundred dollars on a polo shirt?”

“It could be an old one of his before we broke up, for all you know.”

“It’s crisp, clean, looks freshly ironed and bought. If it had stayed with you for ten years, it wouldn’t be in that pristine a condition. Plus, the red marks on the collar there are reminiscent of lipstick, and they couldn’t have been there for more than a day, otherwise it would stain the shirt dark red, and that sure as hell doesn’t look dark red to me.”

Shutting her eyes and surrendering, she digs her nails into her arms. “Shit.”

He breathes out, tired. “Selina, I swear, it would be a huge favor if you could tell him I went looking for him, if you can’t give me anything else.”

She thinks about it, wondering if Bruce would be up this early, or if he ever even slept at all the night before. “Okay, okay, I’ll see if I can call him. Go, now, shoo. Don’t you have class to get to?”

“Class doesn’t start ‘till eight AM.” He waves, giving a smile as he warms up to jog away down the hall. “Thanks, Selina!”

“Welcome, kid,” she mutters, walking back into her apartment and closing the door.

The cats start meowing again, circling her legs and purring against her touch while she greets them good morning. Searching through the stuff on her couch, she finds her phone and unlocks it before she dials a number. Her fingers press it to her ear as she licks her dry lips, the sound of the ringing is interrupted by a groan.

“Yeah?” Bruce’s voice replies; it’s husky and hoarse, which meant he probably slept in and is answering the call from his bed.

“Morning, handsome,” she says, grabbing a spare pair of jeans on the floor. “Mind if I come over for breakfast?”

He sighs. “Did you accidentally buy expired bagels again?”

She buttons up Bruce’s dress shirt. “I could’ve, but this is different. A kid showed up on my door earlier, the one we rescued when we were at Ace Chemicals.”

“And?”

“Bruce, it’s something we need to talk about. He knows…a lot of things about the both of us.”

A pause. She can practically hear the sheets around him shift as he sits up.

“Like what?” he says, his voice on the verge of worry.

“Like the fact that we’re dating. The business with Elliot. And probably more than that.” She goes through the clothes on her hamper, looking for the coat that he gave her. “He told me he’s coming to see you, if he can. I’ll try to see if I can beat him there.”

“No one knows I live here. And I hope it stayed that way.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him a thing.”

“That’s great.” There’s a shuffling, and a sigh. “I’ll, uh…I’ll tell Alfred to brew you some peppermint tea.”

* * *

Gordon absentmindedly glances at his watch, which reads 12:24 PM, then looks around the small yet luxurious café, eventually seeing the familiar figure of Waller and one of her suit and tie agents sitting next to her, in one of the far tables near the back. An usher, who was probably expecting him, leads him to the table and proceeds to offer him a menu, which he declines. He eases himself into the chair across Waller and doesn't mind that her eyes and the eyes of her agent are watching his every move.

“Director,” Gordon says.

“Commissioner,” Waller replies.

Gordon peels off his coat and hangs it over the backrest. “What did you order?”

“A salad, some steak and mashed potatoes, plus some soup. Also hope you’re a sparkling water kinda guy.”

He looks down at his cup; he prefers beer, but he ignores it. “Pretty sure you didn’t call me down here just to order lunch for me.”

“We got ahold of more information about Deadshot,” Waller says as she looks at the man to her side. “Rodrigues, if you will.”

The suit next to her, Rodrigues, pulls a folder from his side and lays it flat in front of the Commissioner. Opening it, he reveals multiple mug shots of Lawton which lie between more police records and pictures of the black site prison.

“I’ve checked with his detainment record the night before Claudia Crescenta was murdered,” Rodrigues says as he sifts through the files, bringing out the time log. “It appears that the CCTV footage found out that he wasn’t at his cell only the next day. There has also been evidence to suggest that his lock had been tampered with and that he had not been detained for over four days since we found the body.”

“So he was out when Claudia was murdered,” Gordon strokes his chin.

“Yes, he was. Security didn’t notice until a fifteen hours after the killing, and they found him walking in the area outside Belle Reve, about fifty feet away, if I recall. He kept claiming innocence when he was captured, however.”

“So the evidence lines up,” Waller sips her water. “He wasn’t in the prison when Claudia was murdered, he was broken out of, they found him outside the prison, end of story. We can all go home and go back to finishing this mess with the Joker.”

“I don’t think so,” Gordon narrows his eyes. “It all seems too set-up. I mean, just the fact that the crime scene points to Lawton, then he wasn’t in jail when the murdered happened. Couldn’t it have been any sharpshooter in Gotham crazy enough to pull a trigger?”

Waller sighs and shuts her eyes, exasperated. “I knew you’d say that.”

Right then, a waiter approaches their table with a number of platters and sets them down one at a time. Gordon watches as the lunch array is laid down in front of him: first the salad, some plates of gravy and mashed potatoes, then a large platter of steak. He’s about to raise his hand to ask for beer, but the waiter’s back is turned to him and he’s already strides away when the words form at his mouth.

“So do you have any plan of action?” Waller asks, already picking up her utensils and slicing her piece of steak.

“An interrogation, maybe?” Gordon asks, not touching his food.

“Also knew you’d say that,” Waller jabs a fork into her bacon and puts it into her mouth. “That’s why I already made arrangements to save us all time.”

Gordon frowns. “Arrangements like what?”

“I know the first person you’d contact to interrogate Lawton would be the GCPD’s pet bat. So I already scheduled an examination.”

“So what, you just…called him to do it for you?”

Waller looks straight up into his eyes as she chews her steak. “Yeah, I called him.”

Gordon is dumbfounded. “Wait, so you _called_ the Bat? Just like…called him to do an interrogation? On a phone?”

Waller rolls her eyes. “Let’s just say you have the more dramatic paging system, with your little light show. I have the efficient one.”

He slumps in his chair. “Nice to know you have his number.”

There’s a pause between the two of them as the gears in Gordon’s head turn, then his eyes widen with a sudden realization that he doesn’t want to believe.

“Wait a minute,” he locks eyes with her. “You know his identity. You know who he is.”

She pokes at her salad. “Congratulations, you get nothing.”

“Unbelievable,” there’s a fire in Gordon’s words now, being fueled by a rage he had no idea he could feel. “You know, I know you’re capable of pretty cruel deeds, but this kind of leverage over the goddamn _Bat?_ You’ve really proven yourself to be one hell of a crook.”

She doesn’t seem affected by it one bit. “Call me whatever you want, but it works to my advantage. And you’re being incredibly assuming, for a person who’s job is to make sure assumptions aren’t the first option. It isn’t as if the Bat doesn’t have dirt on me either.”

Gordon takes a moment to digest her words instead of his lunch. “That’s one helluva bad business relationship.”

“It is, but it has its perks.”

“Like?”

“I know who the Batman is, for one.”

Gordon shuts his eyes. “Dammit.”

“If he listened to my instructions, he should’ve left to the Belle Reve about four hours ago.” Waller’s already halfway through her meal. “I suggest you eat, before your steak gets cold.”

* * *

The moment his cell door buzzes open, he knows he’s going to die in that interrogation room. He had already been briefed about what was to happen later in the day by Flag, and judging from the way that the soldier says it, the inquisitor is definitely someone he doesn’t want to see. So after struggling with the guards, the Tasers, the constant shouting for him to stop moving and to shut up, the dragging of his dirty prison uniform on the floor, he’s pretty sure that not dying out there in Midway City was the worst decision of his life.

Before he knows it, he’s led into one of the countless steel corridors in the compound. The guards open a metal door and toss him in like a rag doll, his groans on the cold concrete floor the only thing he’s sure he’s capable of hearing at this point. The door locks shut with a loud bang, and when he looks up, he’s all alone. A single light in the high-ceiling room illuminates the only furniture at its center: a simple table, with two chairs sitting across each other. From above, the reflection of a one-sided mirror bounces back into his tired eyes.

He gets up slowly, eyes locking with his own from his own reflection, but he’s sure that behind the glass is someone watching. “You up there, Waller? You want me to play your sick game?”

“It’s not her sick game. It’s _mine.”_

Before he could even turn to meet the metallic voice, a hand yanks his collar towards the desk and his back slams into a chair, nearly sending him toppling if he didn’t support himself on the table. The sheer force of the movement is enough to swivel the chair around until he’s sitting on it, face to face with a menacing glare peeking at him from the darkness, just barely illuminated by the light.

His face drops and the blood immediately runs from it.

Not _this_ fucker.

“Floyd Lawton,” the darkness growls.

He scoots to the edge of his chair as he waves a hand in front of him. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit, shit, _shit._ No…no, this is not how this is gonna go. It ain’t gonna go like this—”

“You don’t make that call. You’re forgetting who I am.”

Floyd frowns, balling his shaking fists. “Oh, I know _real_ well who the fuck you are. And if you so much as touch me, you’re gonna get it.”

“I’m not the one sitting in an interrogation chair, so watch your words carefully.”

Floyd lets a laugh go, but it’s one choked by fear. “You still got that no killing rule, right?”

The darkness leans in closer until its face emerges from the shadows. The lines of the cowl form in a cruel grimace, clenched teeth grinding against one another to prove the edge of a thin limit. It’s a face that sends criminals running, talking, begging for mercy, wishing they never would’ve turned to misdeed. It’s a face that inspires fear; Floyd keeps repeating to himself that he’d never succumb to it, even if he is right now.

“Don’t test it,” the Bat says.

Floyd closes his eyes as he feels the looming presence of a shadow move behind him.

“So now, you’re gonna tell me the truth,” his voice growls behind him, and Floyd doesn’t dare look back.

Floyd throws all caution to the wind. “I don’t have any idea what y’all are talking about.”

Suddenly, his head slams into the table with a painful thud, and a throbbing in his head starts to make the room spin for a while. He prays that there’s no blood running down his nostrils.

“You want to keep your skull intact, I want answers,” the darkness growls, louder and more frightening.

“I don’t know how many times I gotta say it to Waller, to Flag, to the damn feds,” Floyd holds his aching head in his hands, shouting, as if he’s talking to the room and not to the single entity the night conceals. “I didn’t do _nothing,_ okay?”

“Your surveillance records here in Belle Reve stated that you were missing for four days, one of the days being the night that Claudia Crescenta was murdered. The evidence found at the scene match the weaponry you use. Then the guards find you wandering the area around this place not fifteen hours later.” A black-gloved hand firmly plants itself onto the table. “You should know that lying to me is dangerous.”

“World’s greatest detective, my ass,” Floyd jabs a finger at the moving figure in the shadows. “Don’t you get it? I’ve been framed.”

The shadows pause, as if in contemplation, when in a blur of a movement, his wrist is caught between sinewy palms, and they begin to twist. Floyd lets out a scream as the ache ebbs slowly into his arm, the Bat applying more force with each discordant syllable that leaves him.

“If you can rub insults at my face, you better be ready to lose your fingers,” he sneers.

“Agh! Fine, fine, let me go!” Floyd yells, and he shakes his wrist once the shadows let go. “Jesus, you aren’t fucking around, even when I _do_ tell the truth.”

“All of this is circumstantial, but it still doesn’t let you off,” the Bat’s voice snarls.

Floyd shrugs. “You know, it might just be me, but don’t you wanna…oh, I don’t know, double-check everything to be extra sure that I didn’t kill this Claudia girl just because?”

The Bat looks back at him, his eyes narrowing. Floyd feels his heart beat faster and sweat roll down his head.

“Look,” Floyd elaborates. “What reason do I got to kill her? I’m already trying to get my sentence cut for my li’l girl. Why would I even extend it?”

The Bat pauses, and Floyd gestures further.

“Y’know…” Floyd continues, “Zoe? My daughter? The one family you took away from me? I mean, I’m sure you got some people close to you that you wouldn’t wanna disappoint.”

For a fraction of a minute, the Bat’s expression softens, but it happens so quickly and so invisibly, than Floyd doubts it ever happened. “I’ll let you off. For now.”

Floyd puts his elbows on the table and hangs his head, the relief flooding back into his system. “I swear, Belle Reve better give me a shit load of favors for putting me through this.”

He sneaks back into the shadows, the dark color if his armor working with him to conceal him from the light. “The fact that I haven’t broken every single bone in your body yet is already a favor.”

And just like that, the door to the interrogation room opens, and Floyd is escorted back by a number of guards, and he’s tired and hopeful, more than anything. The shadows watching him seem to follow him out, and their gaze doesn’t leave, even through the many corridors he passes, until he feels he’s back in the confines of his cell.

* * *

His eyes fly open and they meet the ceiling, the soft and dim dawn light bathing his bedroom in a dark blue glow. Taking a while to absorb his surroundings, the feel of his pillows on his head, the cold shifting of the sheets against his bare body, the faint sound of the pond water running against the shore, he breathes in the morning for what seems to be centuries.

He gets up slowly and wipes the sleep from his face, giving a quick glance to the clock next to the door, which reads 6:02 AM.

There’s a warmth on the bed next to him. Turning around, he sees the soft curves of a naked woman nestled in the sheets, her short dark hair is a stark contrast to the white bed she sleeps on, an expression of peaceful sleep facing his body. The blankets are pulled up to her breasts, her smooth, olive skin damaged by the long surgery scar across her sternum.

He sighs, shutting his eyes. A million apologies wouldn’t be enough.

Careful not to wake her, he pushes the sheets off him and picks up his slacks from the floor.

It isn’t Floyd Lawton.

What Lawton said about the evidence is true, as all of the details are circumstantial, and there had been no witnesses to testify the night of the murder. Though all of the evidence obviously links back to Lawton’s MO of a sniper hit and go, is possible for it to have been too blatantly obvious, so much so that if the killer isn’t Deadshot, then he’d _want_ to point out the fact it was Lawton?

He groans and rolls his shoulders, but multiple spots of pain resound from his back in response. Upon reaching to touch his trapezius muscles, he feels the distinct marks of nail scratches scattered all over.

Damn.

He looks back at her sleeping, and she stirs for a while, curling her arms up to her chest. Ten years, and he’s already forgotten how…fierce she can be.

He reaches for a dress shirt.

If the killer isn’t Deadshot, the evidence clearly was meant to ID him as the suspect: bullets, a broken window, a vantage point, a knife wound, a headshot accurately positioned in between the eyes. It isn’t as if someone copying his methods could have done the deed. So if he keeps claiming innocence, is possible that he really is telling the truth? So he wasn’t in Belle Reve when the murders happened, so could his records have been tampered with? Who has that kind of access, other than someone from Belle Reve? If he was spotted in the area around the prison only hours after he had murdered Claudia, could it have been that he was kept somewhere until it she was killed by some other acquaintance?

How does it all add up? Is this case even related to the Joker lead that Waller has tabs on?

He gets up slowly, walking towards his wall of a window, staring out into the landscape of the lake that acts as his only neighbor. His mind is far from clear, the dawn is quiet, and he’s still tired.

* * *

The doorbell rings before the clock strikes noon, and it echoes throughout the empty house. In the kitchen, Alfred looks up from making Bruce and Selina’s dinner and towards the door, leaving his work to go and answer it. His heart is beating fast and his hands are sweating; visitors to this place are so often rare that suspects behind the door are usually only one of three people: Selina Kyle looking to stay the night or have breakfast, a culprit or goon of one of the rogues ready to murder a poor butler, or some tourist lost in the woods surrounding the city.

When Alfred opens the door, it’s none of those options.

It’s a teenager, with black hair and an oversized red sweater, holding with him a shoebox in both his hands, a folder filed with hundreds of papers under his arm, and a backpack slung over his shoulder.

Alfred frowns in confusion. “I’m sorry, may I help you?”

The boy’s eyes catch him off guard with their curiosity. “You’re Alfred, right? Alfred Pennyworth? If I’m correct, this is the residence of Bruce Wayne.”

Alfred immediately becomes cautious; no one’s supposed to know he lives here. “How do you know that? That’s confidential knowledge.”

The boy sighs. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s just…is Mr. Wayne home? There’s something I have to share with him.”

“I’m sorry, he’s not, and he’s out for the day. And apologies for my rather standoffish language, but he’s a very busy man and I doubt he has the time in his schedule to listen to a teenager.”

“Yeah, but this is important.” The boy pauses, as if it would add effect. “Like, _really_ important.”

“If you wish to schedule a meeting with him, you can contact his company at Wayne Enterprises,” Alfred says in a monotone fashion, preparing to close the door. “Now, good day.”

“Wait—”

And the boy wedges his sneaker to stop the door from closing, and quickly pries it open so he could talk to the butler again, face-to-face. He breathes in slowly, as if preparing to give a grand speech, and his words strike an urgent chord to Alfred, inciting a fear in him he hasn't felt since the burning of Wayne Manor years ago.

“Listen, my name is Tim Drake,” he says. “And I know Bruce Wayne is the Batman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got to the exciting part of this story, finally! It's gonna be detective work and rogues gallery villains all around, from here.


	4. A Box of Newspaper Clippings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhibit 2.1: A shoebox from Adidas rubber shoes, within which include numerous news clippings, evidence trails, and photographic evidence of a confidential matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! Given all of the coming holidays, I hope I can churn out more stuff to write soon.

He digs his hands into the fabric of his slacks, looking at the shoe box that was left on his counter. Alfred watches him carefully as he scrutinizes it, barely lifting a single finger to touch it. He had been staring at it for nearly fifteen minutes. It might have been his incredibly dominating paranoia, but then again, it’s contingent minds like his that prevent him from dying early, in this line of work. 

“I asked him to leave, but he requested you see that box of his,” Alfred says from behind him.

“Have you opened it?” Bruce asks.

“I haven’t, Sir.”

“Run it through the computer’s scanners for explosives or radiation.”

“Already did. There’s nothing dangerous about it.”

“Nothing?”

Alfred shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Bruce carefully flecks his fingers and hovers them over the lid, carefully removing it as he keeps himself wary over what kind of weapon, bomb, or horrid surprise would spring at him from inside.

But all that lies within are scraps upon scraps of photographs, news clippings, paper labels, dossiers, and other assorted writings. The parchment on the top, however, seems the newest addition, a letter written in the neat hand of a teenager. Unfolding it, he takes note of whatever he could construe from it.

_Mr. Wayne:_

_My name is Tim Drake. Now, you probably don’t know me, but I know quite a lot about you. For one, I’m aware of the incredibly secretive fact that you’re the Batman._

_I get it, it’s pretty weird that I know. But I can’t let you deny something that I’ve been researching ever since the Bat started prowling the streets. All of the items in this shoebox are evidence pieces I’ve compiled for years that point to how exactly I found your secret identity. Enclosed are photos of the bulletin board that they used to hang on, which would show you how intricate and detailed-oriented my quest for the truth is, and how dedicated I was to find it._

_Rest assured, I won’t use this information against you. I won’t use this as blackmail or demand stuff from you using it. However, I ask that you contact me immediately when you finish perusing this, as I have something quite personal to ask you. And it requires a face-to-face talk. My contact details are at the back of this letter._

_Regards,_

_TJD_

Bruce flips the paper, and on the blank expanse lies a phone number.

Setting the parchment on the counter, he picks up the first thing he sees inside the box, a rather thick envelope at the top of the pile, and empties it of its contents. Inside lies about six photographs of the same corkboard, but each photo is labelled with a number. The first picture includes only a few papers tacked to the surface, but as the numbers increase, so do the pieces, until the board in the sixth picture is no longer visible behind all of the red strings and papers covering it.

“Dammit,” Bruce says, looking through the board pictures. “Did I ever reveal too much? Did I ever let my guard down?”

Alfred looks over Bruce’s shoulder, staring at the different news clippings and photocopied GCPD dossiers that are coming out of the box, one by one. “I don’t think so. Simply put, this boy is smart, far more intelligent that most in his demographic.”

Some of the evidence are from _The Gazette_ talking about his press reaction to the Bat of Gotham, and most of the passages are highlighted and annotated down to every detail. Polaroid pictures of blurry shadows against the night rooftops are also scattered among the assorted items, together with more cut-outs from tabloids, interview transcripts, and articles about both Bruce and the Bat.

Before he could dig further, Alfred walks to the opposite side of the counter and places his laptop to face him, as the computer brings up a wave of information and pictures of the same boy who was nearly hammered to death in Ace Chemicals by the Joker and his equally crazy girlfriend.

“Timothy Jackson Drake,” Alfred reads as the computer adds more and more. “Sixteen years old, third-year student in Gotham City High School, the top of his entire batch, 98.32 GPA, an IQ of 171.”

“Pervasive intelligence,” Bruce mutters.

“It isn’t far from yours, Sir.”

“It’s still a couple of numbers away.”

Bruce watches as the computer brings up images of the same young face on campus at GCHS, an assortment of class photos, and a few pictures of what seems to be a perfect suburban household in Gotham. But one picture stands out to Bruce from all the others: a man in a decent outfit stands, his wife is seated, while a young boy of about ten years of age stands right in between them, with all of the three smiling at the camera.

Bruce tries to ignore the painful ache in his chest.

“His parents are Jack and Janet Drake,” Alfred continues, careful with his words. “They’re young entrepreneurs earning more than enough to feed their mouths and send the boy to a good school.”

Bruce wipes his face, digging more into the box. “You said only sixteen years old?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Means he was already alive by the time I was four years into this.”

“And he said he spent most of his life piecing this together.”

Bundle after bundle, he empties out the box. “Not even most of my enemies know who I am. He’s good, I’ll give him that.”

Alfred and Bruce lock eyes across the counter.

“I mean, look at this,” Bruce brings out a number of stacks held together by a bulldog clip, a mix of pictures of his towering skyscraper, and transcripts from an architect, blueprints, and the official seal of Wayne Enterprises. “He’s smart enough to recognize the Bat’s extensive knowledge of Wayne Tower and how he uses the company’s technology and surveillance to scan the city. All just by interviewing a few employees and studying the basement plans and schematics of the building.”

Alfred picks up the drawn blueprints and studies them in the light. “Incredible.”

Bruce fishes out a few more files before he stops and stares at one bundle, perusing its contents thoughtfully. “Looks like I’m not the only one he’s found out.”

Alfred looks in his direction as Bruce sets the bundle on the table: a group of more Polaroid photos and cat pun headlines pointing to Selina Kyle being the notorious cat burglar of Gotham. He fishes his phone from his pocket and dials a number, walking in the direction of the living room as the ringing fills his ear.

“Hey,” a woman’s voice ceases the ringing. “Thought you were busy today.”

“I was,” he replies. “That boy that came by your place yesterday morning…did you tell him anything?”

“Not a thing. The only thing he discovered was that we were dating. I don’t even know how.”

He sighs. “Figures.”

“What do you mean? Something come up?”

“The kid’s not who we think he is.” Taking in a breath to try and calm himself down, he tries to choose his words carefully as to not send her blood pressure through the roof. “Um…why don’t you come over and we’ll talk about this?”

* * *

The GCPD is luckily the apartment of DA Jeremy Burnham earns one of the best air-conditioned apartments in _The_ _Golden Acres,_ a fifty-story luxury residential complex at the heart of the Diamond District. If it had been otherwise, then the evidence would not have survived long enough for the police to investigate. At least they had enough to work with, or to trace back to a possible suspect.

By the time dusk takes over, police tape, warning sirens, and Agency cars all line the block surrounding the lobby to the building, and some of the snobbish homeowners are already complaining to law enforcement about encroaching on their property without permission. Upstairs, on the 31st floor, in one of the many apartments, Commissioner Gordon and Director Waller both pace around the living room as PD try to take evidence from the surrounding area. But the main focus of the investigation is Burnham’s body in the center of the room, standing upright, encased completely in ice. His face and body is contorted in a way that seemed that he was falling when he had been frozen, and it seems almost impossible to tell if he really is alive or not without chipping away his cold coffin.

“How long does the man take to put on that damn suit of his?” Waller mutters, checking her watch. “It’s almost been an hour since this was called in. At this rate, the ice is gonna melt.”

“It won’t.”

At the sound of the monster’s voice, both Waller and Gordon turn around to see a perching figure on the balustrade of the balcony behind them, cloaked in the dark of night, only faintly illuminated by the lights coming from inside. Slowly jumping down and moving across the room, all eyes follow him as he observes the block of ice encasing the poor former District Attorney, looking at the computer monitor on his gauntlet. Gordon and Waller can only watch as he breaks apart the crime scene, almost as if he can identity just exactly what happened.

“He’s frozen inside liquid nitrogen,” the Bat states as he stares at the dead man’s eyes. “Died from hypothermia before he could hit the ground. If you were to thaw him out, you’d have nothing but a well-preserved corpse.”

“Shit,” Waller mutters under her breath. “And here I thought we could have a witness.”

The Bat kneels, touching the small traces of ice around the block with the chemical-sensitive finger pads of his suit. “Judging from the marks here, he was hit with a cryogenic blast. The angles of the markings are moving away from him, meaning that whoever shot him was standing by the door.”

“Not to be too on the nose here,” Gordon says, “but all of this points to only one person being the culprit: Mr. Freeze.”

Waller crosses her arms. “If you didn’t say that, I would’ve assumed you were too stupid.”

“But it just doesn’t match up with any motive,” Gordon replies, looking at Burnham. “Fries hits museums and pawn shops for diamonds to power that suit of his, gets scientists from GothCorp to experiment on; why would he ever want to land a hit on Burnham?” He looks into Burham’s eyes, the sad kind of look you would give a body at a morgue. “Dammit, and to think I was just talking with him a few days ago.”

“Do you keep tabs on Burnham’s movements?” Waller asks.

“No,” Gordon shakes his head.

Waller crosses her arms. “See, _there’s_ your mistake. The man could’ve been plotting against Fries right under your nose, or must’ve done some weird shit to provoke his feelings for his wife.”

Gordon frowns. “What Burnham does is none of my business.”

“None of your business, sure. Not while he’s corrupt and using taxpayer’s money to flounder about and drown in champagne?”

Gordon shoots her a look. “You think I could do anything with the mayor barking down my back? I’d like to see what _you’d_ do if you were in my position.”

Waller scoffs. “Oh, I’d know _exactly_ what I’d do: get the mayor’s ass in gear to weed out every single man up in that office who isn’t doing anything for this city except stuff its cash in their pockets. It’s ruthless, but hell, if it isn’t more than you’re doing right now.”

Gordon looks like he’s on the verge of putting his fist straight through a wall. “You have _no idea_ wh—”

“Stop this,” the Bat says, and they both stare at him. _“Now.”_

Gordon and Waller bottle up their anger and sit there, looking at the daunting figure. If there’s something that surpasses their anger for on another, it’s their unique mixture of fear and amazement of the Bat.

“Gordon,” the shadows say, not friendly, but not hostile either. “I need a word with Waller. Alone.”

Gordon opens his mouth as if to reply, closes it, and tries not to let any emotion show on his face as he gives a nod and motions for all the cops in the area to walk out of the crime scene. Following him out the door, PD look in curiosity at the Bat as they leave the room, emptying the entire apartment save for the shadows, Waller, and the poor, unnatural corpse of Jeremy Burnham.

The silence precedes the shadows’ voice, and he can practically hear the muscles in his fingers clenching as he balls his fists.

“Swear to me,” the Bat growls, trying not to grit his teeth. “Swear to me that you’re the only human being in Gotham who knows.”

“About your identity?” she turns to him, the fear absent from her eyes. “Among all the agents in my facility, I’m the only one aware of who you are.”

“Then you explain to me why a sixteen-year-old teenager sent me a letter this morning informing _Bruce Wayne_ that he knows he’s the Batman.”

Waller’s brows furrow. “The Agency isn’t a kid’s playground.”

The Bat takes a step forward. “So tell me how the hell a goddamn kid knows.”

“His name?”

“Timothy Jackson Drake. A student from GCHS.”

Waller shrugs. “I have no idea who he is. I don’t even think I have an agent Drake, that’s for sure. Maybe he’s just smart and he figured it out himself, perhaps smarter than you’ll ever be. That, or you’ve gotten careless in your old age.”

The Bat looks back at the ice block.

Waller makes the bold move of staying five strides behind him, when she’s fully aware that ten strides is already too dangerous a distance. “You really think I’d make the dumb move of telling your identity to other people?”

He shot his gaze over his shoulder to lock eyes with her. “If I remember correctly, those I call friends, you call leverage. I know you’re not above doing bad things to get to an end.”

“You’re missing the point here. If I tell everyone you’re the Batman, there’s a chance no one in hell would believe me. And in the chance that they do, it would work against me. If everyone in Gotham City knows your secret, then what kind of power would my knowledge have then?”

The Bat stays silent as Waller’s gaze drifts off to Burnham. From the look on her eyes, she seems disappointed, as if she could have saved the man’s life if only she was much more diligent, vigilant, efficient. But maybe it’s only because he could have provided more information if he stayed alive in that block and didn’t die, and not simply because Burnham was a human being with a whole life ahead of him.

“We shouldn’t spend this time arguing amongst ourselves,” Waller says, echoing the sentiment in his head. “The more people this city picks off, the farther we are from finding answers.”

“I still don’t see you eye-to-eye with Gordon.”

Suddenly, her tone is sharp and merciless, but so are the blades of his gauntlets. “If you think that I’m gonna be buddy-buddy with him just at the snap of your fingers, then you’re horribly mistaken.”

 _“You’re_ horribly mistaken if you think you can threaten me.”

And at that, she’s silent, shutting her eyes as she clenches her fingers around her arms. “We’re nowhere close to our answers and you boys certainly aren’t helping.”

“We’re doing the best we can,” his voice seems to fade as he walks towards the balcony, getting up on the balustrade. “And I suggest you do the same.”

And before she could even make a reply, he jumps off the balcony and stretches his cape’s wings into the night, away into the maze of skyscrapers, corruption, crime and darkness they all call Gotham City.

* * *

Walking through the busy noisy halls of the GCPD HQ, holding a number of files on Burnham’s legal will, he’s caught off guard when someone plops down more details on his pile, with the seal of the Gotham City morgue. Looking up, he sees the tired, sleepless face of Lieutenant Nicky O’Hara walking beside him.

“What the hell is this?” he says, holding up her bundle.

“Autopsy reports for Jeremy Burnham,” she replies. “Thought I might add them so your little folder could be complete.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” he sighs as his eyes shut behind his glasses. “Damn, this case really has a way of getting on your nerves.”

“Isn’t _that_ right?” O’Hara scoffs.

They stop in the middle of the hallway, browsing through the papers. He skims over the various details that the Bat already mentioned at the crime scene: frozen blood stream, death by hypothermia, cracked muscles, fractured skull, the whole array of injuries pointing to death by ice gun. The fact that it’s already too obvious who the killer is becomes incredibly unsettling, since cases like these usually take a bit of brain power and hard-core detective work to figure out who’s responsible.

“It’s all too…strange,” O’Hara echoes the sentiment inside his head. “If the rogues really are picking them off, then what’s their motive? They’re being real dodgy too, not to mention that those Agency folks aren’t even sharing any evidence with us.” Giving a frustrated huff, she brushes a stray lock of hair out of her face. “And they say _we_ have to cooperate and give them everything.”

“Tell me about it,” he groans, looking through the coroner’s notes.

“It might just be me, Commissioner, but I feel this is a little too on the nose. I mean, it’s almost as if they wanted us to believe that Claudia Crescenta’s killer was Deadshot, just like this one’s pointing to Mr. Freeze.”

“Well, they don’t exactly have the most typical MO.”

“And maybe that’s the point.”

The Commissioner closes the folder. “It’s possible that the rogues are proclaiming a war against a set number of targets. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened, and it certainly won’t be the last. It’s just that this time, with Burnham’s name on our board, this whole plot might be bigger than just the mafia.”

O’Hara’s face brightens, as if she had thought of the most genius hypothesis in the world. “Hey, so what if…someone’s using the rogues’ MO to frame their crimes?”

Gordon pauses. The entire GCPD HQ seems to grow muted as the gears in his brain churn.

“If that’s the case,” he asks, “then what’s the motive? What reason do they have to kill the most corrupt people in Gotham City when they want to see the place torn to shreds?”

Now it’s O’Hara’s turn to be silent while she stands there, finger tapping on her chin. While she ponders an answer, Gordon leaves her, ready to bind the Burnham files into another one of the unanswerable mysteries of this wretched place, and call it a literal cold case.

* * *

Schiavone’s is known to the common Gothamite as one of the most expensive and luxurious restaurants in the city, with a classical Italian aesthetic that puts any of the pizza places on Main Street to shame. In the wing used to reserve the priciest of tables, a couple finishes their dinner entire course meal, surrounded by other garish men and women who could never really match their attractiveness, even if they tried. Using a napkin to wipe his mouth, Bruce raises a hand to call for a waiter, and once he points to the empty wine glass, the waiter gets an idea and rushes over to the cellar.

“Oh, you and your Chateau Margauxes are gonna get to your head someday,” his date says, sipping her sparkling water. He can’t help but admit that she looks stunning in that black evening gown.

“You sure you don’t want Dom Pérignon or anything fancy?” he asks.

She leans back in her comfortable chair. “Don’t learn to spoil me, Bat, I’ll just keep asking for more.”

He sighs. “If that isn’t true.”

Just then, the waiter comes with another bottle of Chateau Margaux and pours a glass halfway for him. Once the employee gestures over to her glass, she can only decline, and once his duty is done, he bows and leaves them to finish their beverages. In a few moments, they’re left alone, she leans into the table closer.

“Do you really think the culprit is Fries?” she asks softly, her voice a little lower.

He locks eyes with her and shakes his head, swirling his wine with a hand. “I wouldn’t know who else if it isn’t him.”

“So it _is_ Fries then.”

He breaks her gaze, still apprehensive as he takes a sip of his wine. “I still don’t understand a few details. Why would he hit Burnham? What did the DA ever do to him?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know about you, but there’s only one madman with a freeze gun in the city.”

“While that’s true, it seems too obvious a choice. The whole crime could be framed to make it look like it, and the killer could be out there, planning to frame another villain.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out.”

They’re both silent as they look at each other from across the table, eyes locked, their gazes intent, as if they both knew what the other was thinking. They aren’t going to back down that easily from each other.

“Let me do it,” she says.

“No, I won’t,” he replies sternly.

“He probably thinks I’m still a rogue, he can relay information to me. I could get close to Fries and ask him if he did it or not.”

“I won’t let you, Selina. You could get hurt, your arrhythmia could act up. I’m not risking it.”

“I’m not asking you to risk anything, Bat, I’m asking you to trust me.”

“I’m don’t need to trust you, Cat, I need you to be safe.”

She sighs in exasperation. “Bruce—”

“I almost lost you once,” the tone in his voice turns the conversation even more solemn, and the look in his eyes cracks her already patched heart in two. “I can’t have that happen again. If there’s a chance that I can save you, I’m taking it.”

She gives a frustrated huff and resigns herself in her chair, hanging her head. “I’m not some damsel in distress, Bruce.”

“I never said you were,” he sighs, putting down his wine glass. “But last time you went out, your angina acted up, and at that heist I caught you in, you nearly had a heart attack. If I could give you what you want, I would, you know that. But I can't let you do this when I know that I could've done something. I don’t know how yet, but I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

“You can start by promising me that you’ll bring me to the next one.”

He thinks about it, lets out a breath, then places his arm on the table, stretching his palm out towards her.

After staring at his offer for what seems to be ages, she relents, putting her hand in his as their fingers intertwine. He tilts his head as her eyes locked with his, and she can only blush and smile when his thumb runs over her knuckles, bringing them over to press them to his lips.

“Think that’s still gonna make me forget you’re paying for dinner?” she quips, eyes alight with charm.

He huffs, blinking as he calls over a waiter and tries to dig around his pockets for his wallet. She can only laugh once he checks all four compartments of his coat with no avail; he shoots her a look, and she brings his Bottega Veneta wallet out and places it on the table in front of her.

* * *

He’s only thankful that the suit contains thermoregulatory contraptions that are able to keep him warm. Just entering into the vents of Warehouse 121 already makes misty breath materialize before his lips, the metal of the tight corridor freezes beneath his fingertips as he crawls closer and closer to the heart of the building.

Once he reaches the end of the vent, he peeks through the vent filters to see the entire place cloaked in a thin layer of ice, with frost fogging up the windows and icicles hanging off the steel beams overhead. Some of the lights have been burst or frozen, but the ones that remain illuminate the empty expanse of flooring, littered with empty carton boxes labelled with the symbol of GothCorp. An array of tables cluttered with flasks, test tubes, and bubbling liquids and experiments are in more than one place, and a large board marking different locations on a map of Gotham is put to the side.

However, the object that commands the most attention in the room is a large, cylindrical, transparent cryogenic chamber in the entire warehouse’s center point. The mist swirling around clues him in that the area around it keeps an incredibly low temperature, and the wires, pipes, and buttons connected to it is an artist mark of the creator, something which he had seen before in the cryogenic technology that used to keep Selina’s heart alive during that terrifying duel with Thomas Elliot. Inside the chamber, the body of a beautiful woman in a white gown and long hair remains floating, suspended in what seems to be peaceful sleep.

He looks around carefully, inspecting his surroundings through the safety of the vent’s darkness. Silence, with the occasional machinery beeps, is the only response.

Unlocking the vent’s bolts using the blades of his gauntlets, he carefully pushes the grill down and climbs onto a ledge beside it, securing it back with drill nails he had attached to the edges. A shot of the grappling hook launches him over to the beams as he waits in the shadows for any movement, crouching on the support like a hidden gargoyle.

The sound of a growling engine is heard outside. As if on cue, the large transportation doors of the warehouse scroll upwards, and a truck slowly backs into the empty space, stopping just a few meters away from the cryogenic chamber. Once the truck shudders to a stop, the driver’s seat opens, and out falls the frozen carcass of a man, which shatters on the concrete floor with a push.

He slinks deeper into the shadows. Vigilant eyes spot another figure emerge from the truck’s driver’s cabin, am odder and dangerous man: blue skin, glass helmet, heavy machinery strapped at his back and chest, and tubes snaking around every joint in his body. His bald head, heavy build in apparatuses, and eyes concealed behind dark red goggles, make him appear as some mad scientist of sorts. And in a way, he is.

The temperature in the whole warehouse drops, and the darkness can feel it.

“The drivers were good for something, at least,” the strange scientist speaks, walking to the back of the truck as he opens its doors, ready to unload its contents.

The shadows above look closer at the contents inside the truck as the scientist unloads them. Numerous boxes of machine parts, chemical capsules, and liquid nitrogen in stable containers, are branded with the seal of GothCorp.

There’s a blind spot. It’s time.

Quietly, he descends from the ceiling and lands onto the top of the cryogenic chamber, without so much as even stirring the machinery or the person it holds. As he stands upright, using his cape to cover his body and make him seem bigger than he is, the scientist, as if he can sense him, turns around and nearly jumps at the sight of the Bat.

 _“You,”_ the scientist sneers, hatred lacing his accent.

“Fries,” the Bat replies, his disguised voice as dark as the shadows that surround him.

“Get off that chamber this instantly,” Fries threatens, closing the distance between them with his wide strides. “Or you’ll regret even setting your eyes on it.”

“I didn’t come here without a purpose,” the Bat adamantly snarls. “The death of Attorney Burnham. Was that you?”

“I will answer for nothing until you are far away from Nora.”

“You’ll answer,” and he brandishes a Batarang from his belt, the sharp end gleaming in the dark light. “Or there will be consequences.”

Fries is at the foot of the chamber now, clenching the fist that isn’t heavily laden with armor. “You wouldn’t _dare.”_

The Bat doesn’t like playing around any longer. He wraps his fingers around the blunt edges of the Batarang and raises it up, preparing to jam it straight into the metal roof of the cryogenic chamber.

_“No!”_

And suddenly, a burst of a cold blast just barely grazes his hand and nearly blasts him in the face. He feels the chill of the ice bite at the exposed skin of his cowl and he falls backwards, off Nora’s chamber and onto the cold floor.

“You’ll be frozen solid for making such a threat against me,” Fries voice prowls towards him as he gets up slowly.

The Bat doesn’t waste time getting on his feet and he launches his fist into Fries’ face, but instead of breaking bone, his knuckles splinter the scientist’s helmet right in front of his face. If not for his glass helmet protecting him, his nose would have been broken right off his face. But the force is enough to completely blow Fries to the ground, but before he could even lift his armored hand, the Bat plants his foot on the appendage, making Fries yell pain as he struggles to pry his hand from his force, but to no avail.

“You’re going to answer me,” the Bat grinds his teeth, then draws a Batarang and aims it at the cryogenic chamber, “or your wife will do it for you.”

 _“No!”_ Fries cries. “No…no, please—”

“Why did you kill Attorney Burnham?” the Bat demands, pressing on his arm further.

“I didn’t!” Fries, in a pathetic effort to free himself, uses his other arm to push the Bat’s leg off. “I swear, I didn’t.”

“You’re the only man with the capacity to shoot a blast of ice with that gun of yours. If you think lying to me is even an option, your wife will get what’s coming to her.”

Fries finally yanks his hand out of the metal gauntlet that had surrounded it, clutching it to his chest. “Does it look like I have a gun?”

The Bat’s eyes don’t soften, but he looks at the piece of armor under his foot: the gauntlet that Fries had been wearing looked like the prototype of some other kind of invention, almost like his gun, but not quite. A crude thing, as if someone had just welded pieces of scrap steel together and plugged tubes into the liquid nitrogen capsules at its back, it looked more like a toy than something Fries would make.

“Someone…someone had stolen my gun,” Fries explains. “A few days ago, someone robbed this place and made off with a number of liquid nitrogen bottles I had kept for study.”

The Bat is unmoving as Fries hangs his head, his hand clutching his breast.

“Please…” Fries begs, “for once, I have done nothing. If you must punish someone, punish me. But by all means, please don’t touch her.”

The Bat thinks, hesitates, stands still. Then mist covers his mouth as he huffs, preparing to stab Fries’ hand with the Batarang, but instead he misses on purpose, only barely scratching his fingers. Before Fries can even look up, the shadow of the Bat had vanished, his mere presence completely gone from the surrounding area. The Warehouse is one again cold and his, and it only leaves a feeling of uncomfortable uncertainty in its wake.


	5. Four Empty Vials of Fear Gas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhibit 41.3: Four corked test tubes that contain traces of an unknown chemical, a cocktail of various psychopathic and phobia-inducing drugs, normally produced in usable quantities by inmate Jonathan Crane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I personally loved writing this chapter. You can tell by its length that this is more than the usual amount of words for chapter I normally write.
> 
> It’s also pretty obvious I’ve been playing too much _Batman: The Enemy Within,_ and my love for Iman Avesta is also something else (to which you’ll see the consequences of soon). You’ll find some lines that I scrounged up from that game too.

The day is already waning, the dying light of the sun reflecting off the glass of the sparkling skyscrapers of Gotham’s wealthiest. Wayne Tower in particular is a flaming beacon standing above all the other buildings, catching the sunset in its windowpanes and showing the whole city just how beautiful the calm before the storm could be.

Inside the building, the executive elevator dings as it reaches the ground floor. Upon entering the lobby, Bruce is greeted farewell by his busy employees and receptionists, only giving them a tired smile, with one hand fixing the lapels of his suit, and the other holding all the files he could gather about the rogues gallery from WayneTech’s information database. He’s confident that almost nobody in the company knows of the ‘work’ that he actually performs when he checks into the office, save for maybe Lucius Fox. Perhaps some days, he thinks of his company itself as a front to help him on this crusade, instead of a legitimate business, even though the ruined crest of the Waynes back in the old manor combats that very sentiment.

But as he’s passing the waiting lobby on the way to the parking lot, he sees woman in all black, who had been sitting on one of the many armchairs there, get up and walk to him. He says and does nothing as she stands, running her hands over his jaw, stubble, then neck. And with that, she cups his face and leans in to give him a gentle kiss on his lips.

“Hello, lover,” she greets.

“Hm.”

Her eyebrow quirks upward. "Really? That's all you have to say?"

He shrugs. "What else do you want me to say?"

"Nothing," she takes a step back, sighing in defeat, as she looks at all of his papers. “Done your research, I see.”

“Apparently, the computer back home had been missing a lot.” He looks back at the receptionists, and he sees that they’re already staring and whispering excitedly amongst one another. “You better have a good reason for doing what you just did.”

She puts her hands on her hips, grinning. “What, kissing my not-boyfriend?”

“And showing up to my office unannounced.”

“It’s important, actually.”

His eyebrows raise as he begins to walk to the parking lot. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” she follows him, slinging her handbag properly around her arm. “It’s about your little kid problem.”

Bruce nearly flinches. “What about him?”

“Tim Drake, right? That's the kid's name?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Since GCHS is only a few minutes away from where I live, I’ve done a little investigating on my own. I was able to break into the records building and I found out all that I could abou—”

“Selina, what did I say about breaking in?” he cuts her off exasperatedly.

She rolls her eyes, but it doesn’t stop her from smiling. “Bruce, I broke into a _school._ You really think _that’s_ gonna give me a heart attack?”

He lets a sigh go and doesn’t reply. It’s the kind of facial expression that makes him look pathetic.

“Anyway, I broke in,” she continues, examining her nails. “Did some background checks on his performance in class. You already know he’s top of his batch, got an active club reputation going on for him…at this rate, he’ll be graduating with a whole array of medals and leis on his neck. According to the school’s family background check, his dad used to be a GCPD officer, Sergeant at the East End precinct and retired only two years ago. The kid’s mother, however…her sister’s a name you’re probably familiar with: Jessica Willis.”

The pieces fit together in his mind. Jessica Phoebe Willis, VP of the Research and Development wing at Wayne Enterprises. “So that’s how he got a hold of the Tower’s blueprints.”

"And I'm sure that's just one of many leverages he used to get information for his research."

He opens the exit to the parking lot, allowing her to step in first before he closes the door behind him. The air is warmer, much more humid than inside the building, with the whole place still filled with cars and vans of every shape, color, and size.

“Anything else interesting?” Bruce asks as he digs for his car keys in his pocket.

“That’s all I found. I have some hard copy files, if ever you need them.”

A car just a few ways in front of him, a sleek red sports vehicles, blinks its headlights when Bruce hits a button on his keys. Selina’s eyes widen and she tries to hide the fact she’s impressed.

“Mustang, huh?” she crosses her arms.

“It’s over six-hundred horsepower,” he lightly smirks, opening the driver’s seat. “How’d you even get to the office? Cab?”

“Close. I stole a motorcycle and left in in the alleyway.”

Before ducking his head into the car, Bruce shoots her an exasperated look. She smiles.

“Okay, I’m kidding. Holly drove me here.”

“Great,” he says, hopping into the driver’s seat. “Do you need me to bring you back to your apartment?”

She sits shotgun, closing the door behind her as she removes her hat. “Actually, I was thinking I might crash at your place tonight.”

The gears in his head turn fast, and he leans his skull against the headrest. “You can have the guest bed.”

She resists the urge to hide a smirk. “We both know I won’t end up sleeping it in anyway.”

He shuts his eyes and hates how right she is about that.

Switching the engine on, he revels in the car’s beautiful roar and maneuvers them slowly out of the parking lot and onto the road. But even as they’re driving along the twilight air of Gotham City, she’s silent beside him, tinkering with her hat on her lap, almost avoiding to look out the window. He tries not to let himself come to conclusions, as his detective mind is almost often prone to doing that.

“Tim Drake,” she says, as if she's tasting the name on her tongue. “He knows about us. He knows about our identities. Why hasn’t he used it as blackmail yet?”

He swallows a sigh, hitting the brakes gradually on a stoplight. “He said in his letter that he had no intentions of blackmailing either of us, but he did give me his contact number. He'll probably explain what he wants with us if I call.”

“And you haven’t called?”

“No, I haven’t.”

She leans and looks out the window. “Not to beat you with the obvious hammer here, but it’s nearly been two weeks since Burnham's murder. And you still haven’t contacted him? Seen him?”

“He hasn’t reached out to me either, even with what I assume is an extensive network to reach me. I think he’s waiting.”

“I think you are too.”

She’s right, and he accepts that defeat in silence. But the truth that he doesn’t want to admit is that he’s terrified, so fearful that he’ll make another error, just by pressing a few numbers on his phone and waiting for that voice over the ringing.

He’s smarter than this. He won’t make the same mistake.

* * *

For once, he doesn’t think it’s wrong, standing in front of the DA’s door. For the past years since Harvey Dent’s…defection, and the corruption of Jeremy Burnham’s absence leaving the office empty, it hasn’t been in legitimate use for nearly a decade. So he can imagine the mixture of dread and excitement inside him when he sees the lights behind the frosted glass, with the label of ‘DISTRICT ATTORNEY’ in gilded gold layered on it.

He knocks twice with his knuckles. “It’s Commissioner Gordon.”

“Come in,” a female voice replies.

He opens the door to see an office so empty it almost looks newly renovated, with a couple of boxes stacked up at the base of the desk. The night lights of Gotham pour unto the empty shelves, already cleared of the belongings of the former DA. Other than the piles of folders and the computer that looks like it’s taking years to shut down, nothing else sits atop the wooden table. Unloading the contents and files from the boxes is a young woman, taller than O’Hara but shorter than Burnham, with her dark hair styled in a neat bun behind her head. Her blazer had been sitting around her office chair, and the polo shirt and slacks she wore on her first day had already been dirtied with a few smudges of dust.

Despite her ragged appearance and shocked face, he couldn’t argue. He was there when the City Council screened the applicants for Burnham’s replacement, and for once, the Mayor may have chosen the right person to put in that chair.

Attorney Elizabeth Marshall, Gotham born and raised, natural grade skipper. Graduated from Harvard Law at twenty-five and took up masters in Criminal Law. A lot of degrees in such little time, that some of her professors say she was born to become a lawyer. But even with her titles and diplomas and achievements, that’s the problem, Gordon believes: she’s just too young to face the hellhole they all call Gotham City.

“Hi, Commish,” she says, awkwardly waving a folder at him. “Sorry for the mess, I just…I wanted to get everything in order before my first big day tomorrow.”

“Right,” Gordon says, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “I came to bring these files over. Some of the leftover evidence from the Falcone and Burnham case.”

“Thanks,” she says, moving another empty box aside. “You can put them next to the computer. I’ll look over them tomorrow.”

He does what he’s told, placing them neatly on the table, then he pockets his hands into his coat. “I was supposed to give them to you before you took off, but by the looks of it, you don’t have plans to do that anytime soon.”

“I’m actually almost done,” she says, easing herself into the swivel chair. “There’s just a couple of boxes, then I’m good to go.”

He nods, and there’s a silence. She looks out the window to gaze out onto the broken skyline, while he lowers his head and tries to form the sentence in his mind without scaring the young DA away from office.

“Look,” he starts, “Attorney Marshall—”

“Please, Commish,” she stops him. “Just call me Eliza.”

“Okay…” he begins again, “Eliza, I need to be honest with you. When I saw your name in the screening list, I…didn’t think you were ready for the job. Not because you weren’t good with the law or anything, I already know your diplomas prove that. But it’s just…I’ve been Commissioner long enough to see two District Attorneys pulled out from this office, and not because they were fired or resigned, or whatever normal city governments go through. It’s because this damn mess of a town screwed them over and destroyed whatever was left of them.”

She lets the gravity of those words sink in as she leans back into her chair. “You’re talking about Dent and Burnham.”

“Damn right,” he says, hoping his serious chat isn’t draining her morale. “And I’m not trying to scare you, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just feel like I gotta warn you about this pattern, somehow. And that I hope it never happens to you.”

She pauses, taps her fingers onto her lips, then sighs, a smile gaining on her face. “With all due respect, Commissioner, I went into this job knowing full-well what I was getting myself into. And I’m doing this not because I want money, or power, or whatever. I’m doing this because I want to help this city. And I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“First time I’ve ever heard words like that coming out of someone your age,” he replies. He can’t hide the proud face he’s trying to hide, and he makes a decision that hopefully would help boost the determination back in her. “What time is it?”

She checks her watch. “About a quarter to eight. Why?”

He turns back, preparing to walk out of the office. “That paperwork can wait until tomorrow.”

She stands slowly. “What are you suggesting?”

He pauses, as if trying to suppress older, more painful memories. “Ever since Dent, it’s sort of becoming our tradition. Come with me to HQ, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

She’s confused at first, but then it dawns on her, together with wide eyes and an even wider smile. “No way.”

“Yes way,” Gordon raises an eyebrow at her. “Your reports always said that you were quite the fan of his. Now, come on. He isn’t gonna show up if I’m not there to turn on that light of his.”

* * *

“Oh my God. _No way.”_

The Bat narrows his eyes at the new person that Gordon had brought with him to the HQ rooftops. A young woman, not older than thirty judging from her height and appearance, looking like she was meeting a celebrity for the very first time. From behind her, Gordon can only sigh as he leans on the Bat-signal.

“You’ve brought a guest,” the Bat says, his voice already disguised through a discordant modifier.

“That I did,” Gordon gestures to the Bat. “And I assume you know t—”

“You’re the Batman,” she cuts, extremely excited. “Of course I know that, you’re _the_ Batman! I’ve been looking forward to this day for like, my whole life. You know, living in Gotham your whole life’s pretty much drilled your presence here as some hero for some of the population, and—not to put us in an awkward situation or anything—I’m one of those people who’s looked up to you a big deal. So let me just say it’s a real honor to meet you.”

He simply stares at her, unmoving, and she blushes, holding out a hand bashfully.

“Sorry, got ahead of myself there,” she says timidly. “I’m Eliza Marshall.”

“The new DA,” he replies, shaking her hand once.

Gordon takes a step forward. “I thought it would be right for you to meet her. After all, this case looks like something that requires some team effort.”

“I’m sure you were briefed on Burnham’s office term,” the Bat turns to her.

She shrugs sheepishly. “Yeah, the DA office doesn’t have the shiniest reputation after what my…predecessor put it through. But at least the bar isn’t set all that high. I’ve got big shoes to fill here.”

“And judging from your track record, I hope you’ll do a good job,” the Bat says.

She grins all teeth and does a salute. “I’m not gonna let that faith in me go to waste, Sir.”

He gives a small bow of the head to her before turning to the Commissioner. “I assume Gordon flipped on this switch because he has something?”

“Yeah,” Gordon brings out a folder from his coat, handing it over to the Bat. “Here’s some of the stuff we pulled on Fries’ warehouse when you asked us to check on it. The CCTV footage is looped, sloppily at that, too. It’s obvious someone’s stolen something from that place, with the way the crates were moved on Camera 5.”

The Bat looks at the photos inside the folder, and notices the frame change from the photo reel labelled ‘Camera 5.’

“So you tried sending a squad to check out Fries’ place, right?” Eliza suggests. “I mean…we’ve tried, right?”

“No, and I don’t think we’re gonna risk that either,” Gordon scoffs, crossing his arms. “Moving in a squad to clear off Fries’ warehouse is basically sending them to an icy death. He doesn’t like it when strangers trespass on his property, especially when they get into close proximity to his wife.”

“Argh, right,” Eliza clenches her fist in defeat.

“The more these cases pop up, the more convinced I am about O’Hara’s theory,” Gordon continues. “I’m sure you’ve come to that conclusion that the rogues are being purposely framed for another perpetrator’s crimes?”

“It’s crossed my mind,” the Bat casts his eyes downward, deep in thought. “Though it all might just be circumstantial.”

The rooftop door opens and shuts noisily, and all three of the heads turn to see Waller's figue walking towards them, her faithful shadow Rodrigues by her side.

“It’s like you were all asking for another case to test that theory,” Waller says more to herself than to the others on the rooftop. “I see you’ve been acquainted with the newest member of the gang.”

“Director,” Eliza greets.

“Attorney,” Waller says back. “Please excuse the boys, they still have to get their act together as of late. They aren't in the mood to impress you, apparently.”

Gordon frowns. “And what’s the reason _you’re_ here?”

“While you two were busy taking the DA’s precious time,” Waller seethes, “we just got a report. Former Commissioner Gillian Loeb was found dead in his home just a twenty minutes ago. Poisoned, by the looks of it.”

All eyes go to Gordon, who immediately steps back. A lifeless filter goes over his face, and all the emotion drains away.

Not that Gordon was on good terms with the former Commissioner. To Gotham's knowledge, Gordon despised his corrupt predecessor, even during his time as precinct Captain. His constant need to ignore growing threats to the city, the blatant ignorance at every single misfortune on the streets, the embezzlement and abuse of power…the very drive that incited Gordon to become the next Commissioner was fueled by his hatred of his superior. But the fact that someone that close to him in rank had been killed like that incredibly narrows the frame of which the killer could strike, and it's a realization everyone learns when the name is uttered.

“Jesus…” Gordon mutters, his thousand-yard stare downcast on the floor.

“A few of your precinct men and some of my agents are currently scouting the place for evidence,” Waller clasps on her back. “If your theories are to be believed, we’ll find something resembling one of your rogues’ trademarks soon.”

“It’ll be Eliza’s first case,” Gordon pats her back.

“Yeah, judging from the title of former Commissioner,” Eliza huffs, “it’s gonna be a lot of paperwork.”

“Sooner or later, this killer will end up running out of rogues to copy,” the Bat says to Waller. “Eventually, some of the framed will catch on, and maybe they’ll do some investigating on their own. I won’t be surprised if some of them have already started.”

“We got incoming, Director,” Rodrigues says, pressing his ear so he could hear his communicator better. “They’ve found evidence. I would suggest you bring the Bat to see it, ‘cause it’s exactly what we feared.”

The Bat lets a breath go.

“You heard the woman,” Gordon says, switching off the Bat-signal's hum and light with the pull of a lever on the contraption. “I’ll be the one to accompany the DA to her car. You can never be too safe nowadays, and I’m not willing to risk one more person in that office being taken by this city.”

The Bat nods to her. “Take care, Marshall.”

“I will,” Eliza smiles, her eyes star-struck, and they remain so even until he and Waller leave, even as she’s escorted by Gordon from the rooftops.

* * *

The car rumbles through the night, weaving through the traffic of Gotham. The turbines spit fire, speeding across streets, sidewalks, alleyways, until he reaches Trigate Bridge, leading to the outskirts of the city. Leaning into the driver’s seat with ease, he taps a few buttons on the screen in order to alert the cave’s communication channels.

“Alfred,” the Bat says.

“So what did they find at the crime scene, Sir?” Alfred answers.

“Four empty test tubes containing an unknown chemical compound,” the Bat lists. “Further chemical testing reveals it's a cocktail of intense psychedelic drugs and potent hallucinogens. Forensics were able to find the same compound in traces of Loeb’s bloodstream.”

"The ruling?"

"The culprit is obviously Jonathan Crane.”

“Or maybe that’s what the true culprit _wants_ you to think.”

“I know. I have to get to Crane while the crime scene is fresh, see if he knows anything about the incident.”

“Right,” Alfred brings up a map of Gotham. “According to your tracker, he’s over at an abandoned storage facility on the outskirts of the city. I’m sending you the coordinates now.”

The computer system in the car brings up the same map, the location of the professor now tagged. Calculations quickly run and estimate the time it takes to get there to be about less than ten minutes, with the astounding speed of the car. But then it dawns on him, suddenly, that he's basically failed another person while trying to do the right thing, as it often happens; it was bound to come sometime. He dials a number, using the car to ring a phone.

“I suggest you tell Miss Kyle about this,” Alfred says. “You might be in a hurry, but she has the right to know.”

“One step ahead,” the Bat replies. “I’ll get back to you.”

Alfred hangs up just as the phone connects to the car’s speakers.

“Hi, handsome,” the voice on the other end says.

“Cat,” he says carefully, bracing himself. “Look, I know I promised you that I’d let you tag along to the next lead, but…”

She stops for a bit, as if she’s processing his question, then the idea sinks into her head. “Oh.”

“Selina, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, releasing a hand on the steering wheel and guiding the car with only one.

“And you’re on your way to chase that lead down, I assume?”

“Yeah.”

She lets a breath go. “Look, Bruce, it’s okay, I get it.”

“No, it’s not okay. I promised to bring you to the next big hit, but this is urgen—”

“It’s _fine,_ Bat. Trust me.”

He sighs, relaxing his body further into his chair.

“Normally, I’d hang you out to dry for this,” she continues. “But my arrhythmia’s been a real annoying restraint on all the cat burglar outings. The attacks have been more frequent, and I can’t risk you worrying about me when you’re out there. I know it’s dangerous.”

He exhales through his mouth, tasting his own exasperation. “I can’t help worrying about you, Selina.”

He hears a cross between a flustered laugh and a tired sigh from her. “And I can’t believe I love you. So I guess we're even.”

A warm feeling sets his chest on fire, and he finds a small smile on his face. “I owe you again. Anything else you’d want me to do?”

“Yeah, stay safe.”

He knew she’d say that. “I will.”

“No, you’ll _try.”_

They’ve known each other for too long to know they can’t keep that promise. “Yeah, I’ll try. Bye, Cat.”

“Bye, Bat.”

The Bat hangs up, engages the thrusters, and bursts faster into the darkness.

* * *

Maybe Bruce is right, she thinks to herself as she snuggles in her couch, a couple of cats purring against her as she opens a carton of Chinese takeout. Even though he promised her that he’d take her to the next big event, she’s confident that if she had followed him, her heart wouldn’t be able to take it. So just as she’s about to turn on her TV and settle into another marathon of Mexican telenovelas, a knock sounds on her door.

She huffs an irritated sigh, puts on her slippers, and sets her food down.

The knock sounds again, more urgent.

“Okay, I’m coming!” she yells, running her hands through her hair as she makes her way to the entrance.

But when she opens it, she didn’t know what else she expected.

Standing there is the young boy from Ace Chemicals, dressed in all black, with a bike helmet in one hand and a collapsible  _bō_ staff in the other. His frantic posture and agitated fighting meant he was nervous for some reason, but since he interrupted her from a nice and relaxing evening with her cats, she couldn’t care less about it.

“Hey, Selina,” he says, an unsettled smile on his face.

“I take it you’re Tim Drake,” she crosses her arms, a small frown on her face.

He points to himself with his thumb. “Yeah, that’s me. Did Bruce tell you about my little gift package?”

Her brow furrows even further. “He told me everything.”

Scratching the back of his nape, he tries to avoid her eyes as she tries to stare him down. “Okay, that’s…an awkward foot that I’ve started on.”

Her head tilts. “Is this all you’ve interrupted my me time for?”

His eyes shoot up, his frantic self back again. “No! No, no…look, this is important.”

“That’s what you said about you getting Bruce’s number from me.”

“No, not like that. I mean _really_ important. You know how Bruce went to get the culprit to Loeb’s murder?”

“I’ll just assume that you know all that information since you’re basically a human version of his computer.”

For a split second, he looks flattered by the comment, then he goes back to discussing. “Well, the suspected culprit is Jonathan Crane.”

Suddenly, a strange kind fear grips her medicated heart and her eyes widen, her nails digging deeper into her skin. “Wait, Crane?”

He nods. “Yeah, Crane. And I was supposed to contact Bruce and warn him about info I have on Crane, but I was too late. I’ve checked my sources and he’s already there.”

She puts a hand on her chest. “So…what the hell do you need _me_ for?”

He gives a childish, wide grin. “I, uh…kinda need someone to go with me to the hideout.”

She shuts her eyes and gives an exasperated huff. “I knew it.”

“Look, I know you have a heart condition. You don’t have to go if it’s gonna be too hard on you and whatever.”

She leans on her sill, resting her head on the door. “The specific reason I told Bruce I wasn’t going tonight was because I was afraid he’d worry over me.”

He gives a heartfelt smile. “Aw, you two are adorable.”

She smirks, amused and exhausted over this kid. “That and the situation was pretty impractical.”

He twirls his small staff in his hand absentmindedly, the metal weaving gracefully through his dexterous fingers. “So, with all your options, just yes or no: are you coming with me or not?”

Weighing her choices quickly, she looks back at her cats, who are already enjoying lying down on the warm couch and finishing their food bowls to notice her absence. They’ll be fine tonight, but hopefully she’ll be just as fine when she goes out. If she was given the chance to crush her arrhythmia with her bare hands, she would. It's preventing her from doing so much to assist Bruce, and maybe tonight, she can prove her handicap isn't going to stop her from helping someone she cares about deeply.

“Ugh, fine,” she relents, walking back into her house to get her cat suit. “You’re gonna go with or without me anyway, and Bruce will kill me if he knows I let a kid go to him unsupervised. Count me in.”

“Yes!” he cheers, clenching a fist. “Thanks so much, Selina. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“I have _some_ idea,” she says, picking up her clawed gloves on the counter. “Oh, and we’re taking my motorbike. Might take us too long if you pedal to death on that bike of yours.”

“Oh my God,” he thinks out loud to himself. “This is gonna be so awesome.”

* * *

“Wait,” Tim says, holding onto her shoulder before she peeks over the crates that hide them.

“What now?” the Cat spits, looking back at him as she puts her goggles on her head, eyebrows furrowed.

He reaches up, the folds of his jacket hanging loosely over his arms as he puts down the hood covering his head. From the small knapsack over his shoulder, he unzips it, and the noise is so loud in the silence, it’s almost like it’s a beacon to help Crane find out where the hell they are in his hideout. Sternly, she puts a clawed finger to her lips, eyes wide and alert, telling him to shut up; but all he does is give an apologetic grin as he reaches into his bag and brings out two helmet-looking contraptions.

“Gas masks,” he whispers. “I grabbed some spares from my dad’s old GCPD safety kits. Put ‘em on, just in case. I mean, you’ll never know with Crane.”

She hesitates, blinks for a while, then grabs one, adjusting the straps to place around her head. “You really _are_ a lot like Bruce, you know that?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, his soft voice already muffled by the filters of the mask.

Once their faces are safely concealed behind the safety glass, they both peek up from their crouching hiding place to the small laboratory in the middle of the space. Surrounded by boxes and boxes of stolen chemicals, with labels from Ace, Kain, and Synthenergy, is a desk upon where dozens of flasks and other chemistry equipment lie scattered. The few lights that are on illuminate the figure of a man in a tattered and stained lab coat, crouching over his flasks as he pours in a mixture of something glowing and yellow into the batter he already has, turning it a sickly green. He swirls it up in the air with one hand, his other writing down notes on a nearby pad. On the connected table, a makeshift mask made of burlap sack cloth and stitched with hay sits, waiting.

“You said that you were going to warn Bruce about something,” she says quietly to the boy at her side. “What was it?”

“According to my research,” he says, crouching lower to grab his staff from his back, “Crane’s developing a new kind of gas. Something else, not like his usual formula. If what I have tells me anything, it incites greater fears, it’s harder to snap out of, and its toxic properties cause internal bleeding.”

“Damn,” she says, looking up at the support beams in the ceiling for any movement in the darkness. “Well then, Bruce better not be barging in like a—”

Suddenly, a shadow drops from the top towards the table, landing all over the chemicals and shattering the flasks upon impact. Will a yell, the startled doctor falls on the floor, letting go of his mixture as its container breaks into shards. Slowly, the dark looms, larger, until it’s standing upright; the doctor moves towards the other table with slow steps, grabbing the burlap sack mask and placing it over his head. Two crudely-cut holes resemble his eyes, and the crooked smile seems more genuine as he laughs.

Dammit, Bruce.

Tim peeks out too much, and the Cat pulls his head back into the shadows.

“Crane,” the shadow of the Bat growls. “You were there at Loeb’s murder. We found evidence that places you right in his apartment two hours ago.”

“That evidence means nothing,” the doctor says, still stepping back. “You'll never prove it was me.”

The Bat jumps off the destroyed table, following him with each slow, daunting step. “I can, and I will.”

He laughs, a cruel cackle. “What makes you think _that,_ hm? You’re nothing but a scared man in a bat costume, hoping to catch this killer you know is worse than the rest of us. What will you do when you can’t? Will you finally admit that you’ve failed Gotham? That y—?”

Crane is cut off by a jab that knocks him to the ground. He chuckles, ready to face the Bat, as the shadows pick him up by the collar and hold him up in the air.

“Shut up,” the Bat sneers. “You talk about the murder, and nothing else, or I’ll—”

Out of his sleeve, a small tube of green gas slides into Crane’s fingers, and he crushes the glass with his bare hands, right in front of the Bat’s nose. The shadow reels back suddenly, coughing away his lungs as he grasps for his throat, dropping Crane’s from his grasp. The doctor cradles his bleeding hands with maniacal laughter leaving him, watching the Bat lose his strength and drop to the ground on all fours.

“You just inhaled a special new concoction,” he gloats, getting up. “Only for you, the scourge of Gotham.”

The Bat tries to speak, but blood pools at his lips and he ends up spitting it onto the concrete.

_“No!”_

The Cat screams loudly, catching Crane off-guard as she leaps out of her hiding place and runs towards him, uncoiled whip and clawed hands at the ready. Tim, both confused and concerned, follows her lead as he presses a button on his staff, and the rest of it slides out instantly.

“A kitten and a child,” Crane mocks. “You’re all sad fools. You really think you’re safe, with those gas masks on? You really think you can save him now?”

“How dare you touch him, you son of a bitch!” the Cat yells, swinging her whip at him.

The whip catches his arm, but before he could yank free of her grasp, she pulls first, sending him spiralling towards him. She crouches low, and from behind her, Tim jumps as he yells, his staff raised over his head, and he brings down a solid slam that sends Crane’s skull into the ground. With a painful thud, he stops moving, and Tim helps the Cat up from her position.

“Nice,” she breathes, looking at Crane’s now unconscious form.

“Okay, now _that_ was awesome,” he grins, retracting his staff.

As if to get their attention, a painful cough sounds from behind them, widening the Cat’s eyes in panic.

“Baby?” she calls, running towards the Bat’s struggling body.

“Seli—?” and he’s cut off as he spits more blood, two of his limbs giving way as he falls onto the cold floor.

“Baby…baby, please,” she kneels and puts his head on her lap, holding his face as she tries to keep him from passing out. “No, come on, I need you to stay awake, okay? I need you to keep your eyes open for me, please, I’m begging you…”

He holds up his right hand, holding it in front of her face, even as his muscles tremble in attempting to keep it there. Quick to understand what he means, she takes his hand presses a button on his gauntlet, activating the little transparent computer on his forearm. Her fingers are quick to file a distress signal and send current coordinates, and before the software closes, it sends an estimated time for arrival.

“The car will be here in two minutes,” she says, cradling his head to her chest.

In the distance, GCPD sirens are fast approaching, and the reflections of their red and blue lights are visible in whatever little windows the hideout has.

“Selina?” Tim says, looking out from the glass. “Hate to break the moment, but if that car doesn’t come before they go in, we’re dead. We have to leave now.”

She turns to him, but the Bat tries to reach for her nape and instead ends up tracing her jawline.

“Cat…I need…” the Bat chokes, grasping at his throat. “C…Cat, is th…is that you?”

“It’s me, Bruce,” she smiles, grateful the gas hadn’t completely turned his insides to liquid. “It’s me, it’ll be okay.”

He opens his mouth as if to say something, but his droopy eyelids are already slowly closing shut.

“Bat?” she holds his head, tapping his cheeks lightly as if to try and wake him up. “Bat, come on…come on, don’t…please, Bat, please…”

But by the time the GCPD are already knocking on the doors, he had fallen into the grasp of unconsciousness.

* * *

He opens his eyes.

Taking a moment to scan his surroundings, he feels confusion, more than the palpitation in his chest, the sweat on his brow. He’s wearing a nice suit, a coat hanging over his shoulders, right in the driveway, in front of the main door to Wayne Manor. The day turns to night, the sunset blazing the horizon faint warm hues. The lights in the manor give off a warm, honey-like glow, and the lantern hanging in front of the door bids any guest welcome.

‘Why’ doesn’t matter, suddenly.

Before he can take a step forward, the large French doors suddenly opens with a long, loud creak. And the sight that greets him there is one that he never expected.

Standing there is a young teenage boy, not older than fifteen, dressed in a plain shirt and comfortable sweats, dark hair framing his curious face. At the sight in front of him, he gasps in surprise and bolts towards the man outside, colliding with his large body and embracing him tight, burying his face into his fancy clothing. As confused as he was, he can’t help but bend down and hug the boy back, holding him close.

“Bruce,” the teenager says, his voice a mix of anger and concern. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

And without warning, Bruce suddenly feels tears form at the corner of his eyes as he holds him closer, holds him tight. A warm relief floods throughout his chest, and for what feels like the first time in a long time, he feels like he’s home.

And Bruce kneels, just so he can look at the teenager’s visage properly. Strong jaw, dark hair, bright blue eyes, and a smirk that showed the world just how serious he was about challenging the entirety of it. It’s a face Bruce never thought he’d see in his entire lifetime, if he was ever to even have an afterlife planned for him, and in all the years the world had left.

“Jason,” he whispers to him, intently, full of as much emotion as he could muster, “I missed you. I missed you so much.”

Jason chuckles, lightly hits him on the shoulder and smiles. “Quit being such a baby. You were only gone for a few days.”

 _There_ it is. He gets up, wipes his face, and steadies his mind. “Yeah…yeah, sorry about that, it’s just…”

Jason walks back to the house, stops, and looks back. “Just what?”

For some reason, Bruce can’t remember why he was so relieved to see his face, why the mere sound of his voice is already enough to bring him close to tears. Shrugging it off, he fixes his coat. “Nothing, it’s nothing.”

“Suit yourself,” Jason continues walking back into the Manor, Bruce only about ten strides away from him. “Alfred went grocery shopping, so I had to microwave our dinner. I hope you don’t mind that.”

“No, I don’t.”

He’s about to walk after him, when the familiarity hits him hard.

Alfred isn’t home. Jason’s in the doorway of the Manor. He’s specifically ten strides away.

_Ten strides._

The panic sets in, his heart starts to beat faster. He runs, trying to reach out to the teenager, and shouts as loud as his old lungs could scream. "Dammit!"

Jason looks back at him, the curiosity and concern on his face would be the last thing he could ever express.

Bruce is just seven strides away. “Jason, _n—!”_

And the doorway erupts into an explosion of fire, blasting Bruce back onto the driveway as the whole Manor bursts into flames. Quick to shield himself from the debris and equally as fast getting up quickly, he tries not to let the pain and worry get to his head and muddle the speed of his mind. The doorway is engulfed with heat, and some of the windowpanes are already being melted, but behind the rubble, inside the commotion, he could hear the pained screams of—

 _“Jason!”_ Bruce yells, throwing all caution to the wind and sprinting into the fire.

The first thing he feels is the scorching heat, the searing burns on his hands, neck, face, the singeing hair on his nape, face, head, but he doesn’t care. He makes his way through the burning house, trying to find where the voice is coming from. It’s almost as if the closer he feels he is to him, the farther he becomes.

“Jason!” he calls into the fire. _“Jason!”_

“Bruce, help…!” he hears pained yelling, and it’s nearby.

Following the direction of the voice, he pushes away the burning beam that’s holding the door to the dining room shut. Swinging it open, he finds the body of the teenage boy lying on the ground, his nails bloodied, as if he had been trying to scratch his way out of the disintegrating room.

“B…Bruce…?” the boy says weakly.

And Bruce could really only let his heart crush itself at the sight of him. His shirt had been torn to shreds, both of his legs had been broken, and not an inch of his skin hadn’t been stained with blood, either by sore or bruise or cut. Not only that, but whatever was untouched by whoever had beaten him nearly to death had been burned by the fire.

“Shit…” Bruce quickly removes his burned coat, using it to cover Jason’s wounds as he cradles him in his lap in an effort to help him up. “You’ll be okay, Jason. It’s gonna be—”

“Don’t, Bruce…” Jason groans in pain. “You…did this to me…you left me here to die...”

Bruce shakes his head. “No, Jason, I’d never—”

“You left me here to _die!”_ Jason screams, and he launches himself at Bruce, clawing scars into his forearms. “You never loved me! You hate me! You hate everything about me! You didn’t care that the Joker murdered me! You wanted me _gone!”_

“Jason, _please!”_ Bruce cries, the tears already pooling at the edges of his eyes. “I didn’t mean for this to happen—!”

“You hate me!” Jason continues. “You hate me! You never loved me!”

Bruce embraces Jason as hard as he can, no matter how strong the boy’s struggle was to cut his throat, no matter how much blood was staining his clothes, no matter the heat around them.

“You hate me! You hate me!”

“Jason—!”

“You never loved me!

“Please, Jason, y—”

“Die, die, die! Die already! _Die!”_

_“Jason!”_

* * *

“Ja…son?”

He finds himself sitting up on a cold yet comfortable surface. The expanse of the cave is what greets his blurred vision at first, then his eyes continually adjust to the light and the details return to him. The sound of running water and the computer’s beeping replaces the ringing in his ears, and his heart begins to slow down with the knowledge that he’s home.

“About time.”

He turns to his side, and he sees a pixie cut in a cat suit sitting on a chair next to the medical bed, smiling down at him. She’s holding her helmet and goggles in her hands, legs crossed comfortably, even though her expression lends him to the fact she’s been far from that.

“Selina…?” he asks faintly.

There’s a breath of relief from her. “Good, at least your brain hasn’t been fully damaged.”

He clutches his aching chest and slowly sits up, noticing that he had not been changed out of his suit save for the cowl and his cape. She gets up to help him position himself comfortably, then leans on the bed once he settles himself. Even with his throbbing head and half-unconscious mentality, he still can’t help but find her so damn beautiful.

“Might not want to strain yourself too much,” she says, brushing her short hair from her face. “Alfred gave you something to try and flush the remaining toxins out of your system."

"I assume it's something that caused my lungs to immediately give up on me."

"The gas you inhaled was mixed in with some kind of toxic element, which also happened to strengthen its delusional fear factor. Classic Crane.”

“How long has it been since I passed out?”

“About an hour or two. It’s still quite dark out.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Great.”

“What do you remember?”

“Crane’s gas, the Tim Drake kid, and you calling me ‘baby.’”

She smirks. “Turns out that gas didn’t make you forget _everything,_ at least.”

He looks back at his computer, which is already running schematics on how to reverse-engineer Crane’s newest formula. “Why’d you bring the kid?”

“He said he wanted to warn you about Crane’s newest project. Also, he’d be going anyway, with or without me; the least I could do was make sure he didn’t get chopped up in the process. You should thank him too, you know. The GCPD wouldn't have caught Crane without him."

He nods faintly, pausing to take it all in. “No arrhythmia or anything?”

She huffs, facing him. “Seriously, you nearly suffered fatal internal bleeding from that gas and that’s what you ask me?"

He looks at her intently. “I want to know.”

She rolls her eyes, but her faint smile hasn’t disappeared. “Here I am waiting for the day you’ll actually learn to take care of yourself. But for the record, I’m fine.”

He groans as he sits himself up even further, swinging his legs over to her side of the bed as he grips onto the edges to keep himself from falling. “So where’s Tim now?”

“Upstairs, sleeping in the guest room. He said he wasn’t leaving until he talked to you.”

He blinks, as if the very prospect of a teenage boy in his guest bedroom was unrealistic. “You brought him…here?”

She shrugs. “Well, what was I supposed to do? It isn’t easy to lift all two-hundred pounds of you into a heavily-armored car, you know.”

He lets the argument pass over his head. “Right.”

There’s a comfortable quiet between them. She takes it as an opportunity to step in front of him, taking one of his hands in her own. Bringing it to his mouth, he gives her knuckles a tender kiss, but the smile that quickly appears on her fades just as fast, as if she was recalling a painful memory.

“You were saying his name,” she says, almost solemnly. “In your sleep.”

He’s about to ask what she meant, but he comes to understand slowly.

“Oh,” he mutters.

She gives a sad scoff, holding their hands. “So _that’s_ what the gas showed you, huh? It would make sense.”

He shuts his eyes, trying his best to erase the image of his poor son’s face from his mind, to no avail. As if she could sense his thoughts, her grip on his hand tightens even more, almost like she could erase all of the bad memories the harder she squeezes.

They’re silent for a while.

“I miss him,” he says, sadness croaking his voice. "I miss him so much."

Rubbing her thumb over his knuckles, she sighs. “I miss him too.”

Another pause. He opens his eyes slowly, and he turns his head to lock eyes with her. Staring at each other, face to face, they hope that peace could be found between them, if just for a moment.

“Thank you, Selina,” he says, “for bringing me here.”

She smiles, entangling her fingers in his own. “I know you would’ve done the same for me.”

He dips his head, fighting the sleep that drowns his dizzy mind. In turn, she takes his gloved hand and places a kiss on it gently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do follow that popular theory that Jason Todd was killed in the explosion or fire or whatever disaster that burned down the old Wayne Manor.
> 
> Although, my personal detailed take on the death, similar to the one that happened in _Death in the Family_ (the original comic story where Jason died), is that instead of the original warehouse, the Joker tortured and beat Jason to death with a crowbar inside the house, and before Bruce could get to the Manor to rescue him, the whole place exploded.
> 
> If you want, you could tell me down below what kind of theories you have over the death of Jason, since we now got the news that [_The Batman_ movie won’t focus on Jason’s death](https://www.iol.co.za/entertainment/movies-theatre/the-batman-will-not-deal-with-robins-death-14263991). It just means that’ll mean we have to keep speculating, don't we?


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